


Through a Glass Brightly

by Dragonmaster



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Bestiality, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Size Difference, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Torture, Transformers Spark Bonds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonmaster/pseuds/Dragonmaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rift in the fabric of time and space brings the Shattered Glass versions of the Decepticon Justice Division into a brutal and terrifyingly unfamiliar new universe.  Struggling to find sanctuary, they come across a feisty little medic named Nickel... who finds herself torn between these strange but kindly new mechs and the DJD she has come to see as "hers."  She can only belong to one team... the question is which one...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned from an RP with a friend, where we decided the Decepticon Justice Division were the most terrifying thing ever spawned by Hasbro (except maybe KISS Players' Legion monsters...), but that the idea of a Shattered Glass version was too adorable to let go. Throw in some Nickel, and you have a recipe for shenanigans... and maybe some love.
> 
> Title is a twist on "through a glass, darkly," of course.
> 
> Thanks to BasslineRaver for inspiration and beta-ing!

“That’ll do, Kaon.”

At Tarn’s order, Kaon shut off the voltage and shifted, letting the still-twitching chassis of their captive slide to the ground. He transformed to his robot mode and stood at attention, his darkened optics staring vaguely in their leader’s direction as he made his way toward the dying traitor. Even so close to offlining, the mech had some preservation instincts left – he wriggled and squirmed like an energy leech, leaving a trail of leaking fluids behind.

Careless, really, Tarn thought as he reached down and picked the mech up by the collar of his armor. Usually Kaon had a deft enough touch that he could calculate just how much voltage a captive could take before fatal injury was inflicted. Perhaps he had gotten carried away in the heat of the moment… or perhaps he had forgotten to take Vos and Tesarus’ contributions into account. 

The Decepticon Seeker coughed once, oil spurting from his lip plates, then unshuttered his optics to look up at Tarn. Cracks webbed the glass in both optics, and a steady stream of fluid leaked from the right one. His wings and legs were little more than shredded stumps courtesy of Tesarus, and one arm bent at a completely unnatural angle. His cockpit hung open, revealing a tangle of wiring and circuitry that had been mangled beyond recognition by Vos’ careful attentions. At the hands of any other tormenter, this mech would be dead by now.

But the Decepticon Justice Division were nothing if not skilled… and their skills lay in keeping a traitor to the cause alive as long as possible while under their care. Not that their targets appreciated said care, oh no…

“Is there anything you wish to say, Nightwatch?” Tarn asked, keeping his voice low and polite.

Nightwatch spit a mouthful of oil at him. “Drop dead!”

Tarn chuckled softly, ignoring the feeling of fluids spattering against his mask and chestplate. “I am surprised at you, Nightwatch. Here I assumed that you were a fast learner… and yet you seem to have absorbed nothing of the lesson we gave you this evening. Must we give you a refresher course?”

“What’d I ever do to you?” the Seeker barked. “I ain’t done nothin’!”

Another liquid chuckle, though this one had a great deal more ice to it than liquid. “Yes… precisely nothing. And it is because you did nothing that you are to pay the price for your treason.”

“Treason?” Nightwatch’s laugh didn’t have the musical quality that Tarn’s laugh did – it was jangled and harsh, and more than a little mad with pain. “Since when was not takin’ an impossible sniper shot treason?”

“Your commander ordered you to eliminate Ultra Magnus,” Tarn retorted smoothly. “You had him squarely within your crosshairs. And yet you failed to pull the trigger. That is treason.”

“Soundwave was right in the way!” Nightwatch protested. “I’da pulled the trigger, I’da punched a hole in his head! Wasn’t gonna take the shot if it meant killing off Megatron’s pet Comm Officer!”

“Sometimes collateral damage is the price we pay for putting the dream of peaceful tyranny into action.” Tarn clicked his vocalizer softly and shook his head. “You made your choice, Nightwatch… now you live – and die – with the consequences.”

“It’s not fair!” Nightwatch howled, voice gurgling sickeningly as oil rose in his throat tubing. “Wasn’t a fair choice! Slagged if I did, slagged if I didn’t! It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not-“

“Oh, slaggit, can I shut him up?” Helex snarled. “I hate it when they whine.”

“Yes, please do,” Tarn replied. “I believe we’ve made our point here.”

Nightwatch’s wailing didn’t let up for a long while after that… but it was a welcome relief when his vocalizer finally faded to silence. Nothing quieted a mech quite like Helex’s incineration mode.

***

Nickel grumbled as she tossed the last of her tools into the sink in her workshop. Fraggit, couldn’t these mechs ever do a job cleanly? Whatever alloys had made up Nightwatch’s chassis must have been particularly nasty, as he’d left behind a disgusting residue in Helex’s internals. Three guesses who had to scrape the mess out, and the first two didn’t count.

Normally she could at least count on Tarn to stay clean through a job… but no, even HE had to come back splattered with oil and other fluids. She swore these executions were getting messier all the time, no doubt just to screw with her.

She left the tools to soak in a cleanser bath and stalked off toward the washrack. In the process of cleaning up the Decepticon Justice Division and fixing the minor dings and wiring tears they tended to accumulate during a job, she’d managed to get absolutely filthy herself. It was as if all the filth and grime they collected simply transferred itself onto her, and since there was a lot less surface area on her to get grimy, it left her feeling all the more disgusting. She had to get this scrubbed off before it solidified and turned her into a statue of gunk.

The washracks on board the _Peaceful Tyranny_ were built with much larger mechs in mind than her, but she’d learned to cope. The cleanser shower started up automatically as soon as she stepped inside, and she spread her arms, letting it drip and run into every crack and crevice and carry away the dirt. It felt as if she were standing in the middle of a heavy thunderstorm, but at least it did the job. And at least she didn’t have to throw junk at the control panel until she made a lucky shot on the ON button, as she’d had to do in the early days of her tenure here.

Her thoughts wandered as she scrubbed at her plating with a hunk of rag. Judging by the fact that Tarn had only recently started taking her size into account when making modifications to the _Tyranny_ – remodeling the washracks to operate on a sensor instead of a control panel, securing a berth that was close to her size so she didn’t have to sleep in a cupboard – he obviously hadn’t planned on her sticking around this long. From what she understood, his team had gone through medics almost as fast as he went through T-cogs, and the poor schmucks rarely lasted long enough to make giving them a permanent post among the DJD a viable option. Slag, sometimes they ended up losing their medics so fast that Tarn would be forced to bump a target up to the top of his List just because said target had medical training and someone needed repairs.

Truth be told, Nickel hadn’t been at all sure she would last long among the DJD either. Not because what they did sickened her – she’d seen worse during the invasion and decimation of her colony on Prion. Nor because she had been turned off by their cause. As far as she was concerned, organics were the scourge of the galaxy, and any mechs who shared Megatron’s goal of wiping the universe clean of their stain were just fine by her. Even if said mechs were as crazy as Hate-Plague-infested Dinobots…

She sighed and pulled out a pick to dig at a wad of grease that had collected in her knee joint. No, her loyalty would never be in question with the DJD. But she had worried that, despite her devotion to them, they would be the end of her nonetheless. All of them – even Tarn, the most level-headed one of the bunch – were sadistic and psychotic, and while Tarn might believe in their cause to track down and punish traitors to the Decepticon banner, she knew for a fact that the others mostly followed along because it gave them a legitimate opportunity to practice their brand of sadism without consequence. In another universe they’d have been locked up or executed for their sick urges… but apparently their sick urges made them useful here.

But Nickel hadn’t survived a genocide just to meet her end at the hands of a bunch of crazies, and she wasn’t going down without a fight. She’d had some close calls, especially in her early days – Kaon’s pet had hunted her like a retrorat for the first little while, and it had taken a backhand from Tarn to keep Vos from dissecting her in her sleep. But through luck and a roach-like ability to sense danger, she’d hung on… and she’d managed to win these mechs’ respect, if not necessarily their friendship. In fact, she’d dare say she was the only mechanism in the known universe, save perhaps Megatron, who could intimidate them. 

“Nickel?”

She thought about hurling her pick at the speaker, but it was her best one and she didn’t want to see it lost. Instead she picked up the rag and flung it behind her, and it hit Tarn’s shinguard with a wet splat and stuck there.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to bug me in the shower?” she demanded.

“Temper, temper,” Tarn chided, bending down to pluck the rag off and offer it back to her. “I simply wished to check on you. You seemed especially irritable during our cleanup and repair sessions today, and I thought there might be something wrong.”

“Frag right there was something wrong,” she huffed, prying a loose sliver of metal out of her knee – doubtless part of that luckless Seeker they’d just gotten done with. “Helex made a royal mess of himself is what. Next time he comes back with slag still gumming up his smelter, I’ll turn him into a self-cleaning oven.”

Tarn laughed, his musical chuckle soothing to the audials. “I’ll have a chat with him at the next evaluation, as that will be the next time we get to speak one on one. I can assure you he’ll be a little more careful next time.”

She gave a growling sigh at that, but her spark lifted anyhow. The others usually listened to Tarn, even when her admonishments rolled right off their backs. If anyone could get the others to behave and make her job a little easier, it was him. In fact, it was largely thanks to him that Vos had backed off on making a study of her internal anatomy and Kaon had finally kept the Pet under control. At least one mech here had her well-being in mind…

“Nickel,” Tarn went on, “have you given any more thought to my proposal?”

She returned the pick to its slot and arched an optic ridge at him. “You wait until a lady’s in the shower before wanting to know if she’ll bond with you? That’s real classy.”

“You avoid talking about it at every other opportunity,” Tarn pointed out. “This is as good a time as any. And it’s not simply myself I’m talking about. It’s for the good of the whole team.”

She snorted and stepped out of the washrack, shaking off the lingering cleanser. For the past quartrex Tarn had been bugging her to bond with the entire team, uniting all their sparks in a common bond. When she had balked at the thought of a multiple-mech bond – something that was normally reserved for combiner teams and, personally, sounded like a living nightmare to her – he had pressed that it would be for the good of the DJD. They were a dangerously volatile group, and bonding their sparks would be the surest way to ensure their various egos and psychoses didn’t tear them apart from within.

When she had asked why the five of them didn’t just bond and leave it at that, he had insisted that her cooperation was needed. She was the most level-headed mech on the Tyranny, and her spark would help keep their team grounded and stable. She had argued that a six-way bond with his pack of crazies would just drive her insane, but he had insisted she was strong enough to handle such a bond, and would help level out their insanity and keep them from fracturing.

While part of her felt honored that he considered her strong enough to hold the team together, she couldn’t deny that the prospect of a bond with the entire DJD terrified her. Sure, she had come to see these mechs as family, but a bond was serious business. There would be no chance of breaking it should she change her mind… and if she turned out to be too weak to withstand a bond with five certifiably crazy mechs, she would only find that out too late to do anything about it.

“I need time,” she insisted. 

“You’ve had quite enough time to make a decision,” he pressed.

“Not that,” she snapped. “I’ve already decided. I just need time to prep myself. Bonding’s huge, especially with multiple mechs, and it’s not just something you do on your energon break and go back about your business afterwards.”

Tarn’s Decepticon-sigil mask concealed his expression, but his optics flickered in delight. “Then the answer is yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes,” she grumbled. “But we’re gonna have to prepare for it. Bonding takes a lot of energy, and bonding with five mechs at once… it’s gonna suck the power right outta all of us. We’ll need to stock up on fuel, park this ship someplace safe, and plan at least a week to recover.”

“It sounds as if you’ve thought this out.” He chuckled again. “That’s my Nickel. Ever prepared.”

“Are you gonna arrange it or not? Because the answer goes back to no if you’re not gonna do this right.”

“Yes, we’ll make the proper arrangements. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ reaches the Bast system in five cycles’ time. We’ll fuel up and dock there for a respite… and initiate the bonding then.”

She sucked in a quick intake. That soon… 

“Nickel? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, stomping her way toward the dryer. “I’m going to my room. Tired.”

“Of course… you had a long day.” He stepped back, giving her a clear path to the door. “I won’t keep you, then. And Nickel? Thank you. You have no idea what this will mean to our team.”

She grumbled something akin to a “you’re welcome” before stepping out from under the dryer and heading for her quarters. Five days… in five days she was going to be linked, mind and soul, to five of the most deranged and oil-thirsty mechs in the galaxy. Sure, she had grown fond of them over the vorns, but still… did she really like them enough to want them inside her head on a permanent basis? And what if their insanity was contagious? What if, instead of Nickel steadying the team, the bond accomplished the opposite and made her just as psychotic as the rest of them?

They were about to find out, she thought cynically as she stumped toward her room. At least the trip to Bast would give her time to psych herself up and mentally prepare herself. And if she changed her mind on the way… she’d find some excuse. The question was if Tarn would buy it.

***

Not far away from the _Peaceful Tyranny_ – or at least not far for a race that measured light-years as if they were miles – the black of space cleaved open in a gaping rent, colors beyond imagination spilling from the sudden gap in the fabric of the universe. Wave upon wave of cosmic energy poured forth, carrying the detritus of another universe – asteroids, puffs of nebulous gas, the shattered remains of a space station unlucky enough to be caught in the interstellar tide…

And amid the flotsam and jetsam of the tide tumbled a starship, whole and unmarked save an ugly energy-weapon scar down one side. Spit out in a foreign universe, it shuddered and trembled as if its very existence in this new reality would force it to self-destruct. But it finally stabilized, settling on a new course even as the rent closed behind it, sealing it in a strange new cosmos.

Aboard the _Ember's Hope,_ the captain steadied himself by bracing his hands against the ship’s console. He gazed out the viewscreen, optic shutters blinking behind the crimson mask that concealed his features. The blazing colors and weird energies that had filled his field of vision just moments before were gone, replaced by the comforting image of a vast starscape littered with bits of asteroids. A sigh of relief escaped his vents. They had passed through the anomaly unscathed.

Beside him, his comrade pulled himself back into the pilot’s chair – the violence of their passage through the rift had knocked him onto the floor. Far smaller and more slender than his captain, he was plated in a handsome combination of violet and gold, and his optics shone a regal amber in his elegant face. But now those same optics darkened with concern as he let his gaze follow the captain’s.

“This isn’t home,” he noted.

“No,” the captain rumbled. “But I expected as much.” He watched as a fragment of the ruined space station collided with an asteroid, sending splinters of metal flying. “That was no ordinary wormhole, I suspect.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I think,” he ventured, “it was a path through the Nexus Point. I think we are no longer in our home universe.”

His comrade’s optics brightened in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“You know I have no sense of humor, Kaon.”

The smaller mech snorted, knowing better but not saying so. “Another universe entirely? Then we’re no better off than before, are we?”

“The alternative was allowing our ship to be captured by the _Sword of Darkness_ ,” the captain replied. “And you know Rodimus and his crew would not have been merciful. This may be a strange new universe… but perhaps we can find some kind of sanctuary here. And if this universe harbors Decepticons… then we find them, and find this universe’s equivalent to Megatron and offer our allegiance.”

Kaon had to smile at that. “You truly think this Megatron needs our services? For all we know, the Decepticons live peacefully here, and have no need of the DHD.”

“We will never know until we try, will we?” He patted Kaon’s shoulder. “Activate the _Hope’s_ scanners and find the nearest populated planet. We will stop there for repairs and try to find coordinates to this universe’s Cybertron. The DHD may be in a new universe, but our mission of peace and hope continues.”

“Yes, Captain Tarn.” Kaon saluted and began to work the controls.

Tarn watched Kaon a moment until he was certain he had the task well in hand. Then he turned and headed for the quarters of his teammates, intending to check on them and ensure they had taken no harm from their impromptu cross-universe journey. He doubted they had taken physical injury, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful… and poor Vos was a jittery sort, given to panic in unusual circumstances, and would probably need some time and comfort to calm down. Tesarus would be frantic with worry that something had happened to the ship, and Helex… hopefully that mech was too deeply buried in a project to have noticed the crisis, but Tarn would check on him nonetheless.

The _Ember's Hope_ left the field of alien asteroids and space dust far behind, hurtling towards the world of Bast… and a rendezvous with destiny.


	2. Chapter 2

If there had been any scientifically-minded mechs aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , they might have started complaining that there was just no logic behind a single-biome planet. How much sense did it make for an entire world to be covered in just one climate or type of terrain? A planet that was only desert or ice or jungle was a complete aberration… or at least it should have been, so why did the universe insist on throwing out so many exceptions to the rule?

Bast was just one such exception – the entire planet was one enormous bog. The few dozen cities and spaceports that peppered its surface were built on giant platforms with supports that sank deep into the muck, keeping buildings and landing pads from sliding into the mire. Beyond these bastions of civilization, any beings who wanted to explore further had to rely on swamp boats or hovercraft, and Primus help them if they ran out of power or fuel too far from a refuel station. The swamps and their denizens had claimed plenty of lives, and who knew how many decrepit vehicles and decaying bodies lay under the mud and scum.

Nickel scowled as the _Peaceful Tyranny_ touched down on a platform at the spaceport’s edge, giving her a clear view of the filthy water and weed-choked mud that spread as far as her optics could scan. “Fraggit, Tarn, you couldn’t have picked a worse place for us to take a break if you tried.”

Tarn gave her a look of amusement. “I wasn’t aware you were the romantic sort. Were you expecting the spires of Old Crystal City or something?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “And who said this whole thing was about romance anyhow?”

“You have a point,” he noted. “This is a bond of convenience, of course… but it will benefit all of us in the long run. And Bast may not be a pleasant world, but it is remote enough that we will be undisturbed while we rest and recover from the bonding. If nothing else, it will be a nice little vacation for you.”

“Lucky me,” she grumbled.

Tarn crouched down and rested two fingers on her shoulder – she was far too small for him to clasp her shoulder with his entire hand. “You are doing the DJD – and the Decepticons as a whole – a great favor, Nickel. Take pride in that.”

Somehow Nickel didn’t feel particularly proud at the moment. More terrified than anything else. As much as she cared for the welfare of her team – even if she’d die a cruel death before admitting it – she had no desire to get into their heads or their sparks. And the thought of living with a constant mental and emotional link with all five of them sounded horrific, especially if she had to pick up on their emotional and mental states while they were in the middle of a brutal torture and execution session…

“Nickel? Are you quite all right?”

She realized she was shivering, and forced herself to still. “Just nervous,” she fibbed. “Never done this before.”

Tarn chuckled, the sound rippling like silken oil through her audial receptors. With a golden voice like his, Tarn could have pursued a career on the stages of Cybertron, as an actor or a singer or perhaps both. It was something of a shame – and a terror – that he had instead chosen to hone his voice into a weapon of torment instead of a work of art.

“We will be gentle,” Tarn assured her, squeezing her shoulder firmly… and perhaps a bit possessively. “You are a valuable member of our team. And with the bond, you will be truly one of our own, and treated as such.”

“That’s comforting,” she huffed.

“There is a mech here on the List,” Tarn went on, ignoring her sarcasm. “A former general named Obsidian. I am taking the others out to hunt him down. Stay aboard the ship for now. We will commence with the bond when we return.”

She didn’t reply, and eventually Tarn released her shoulder and walked away, leaving her to stare morosely out the window. She held her vigil until she heard the doors to the _Tyranny_ clang shut, signaling that the Decepticon Justice Division had disembarked and were on their way to another kill. Only then did she turn away and head for her quarters to savor a few moments alone… her last moments truly alone, without another mech or five lurking in her head.

 _It’s too soon,_ she thought angrily, hugging herself as if suddenly suffering a dip in her internal temperatures. _Too soon. I’m not ready. Slag, I’ll never be ready. I don’t want this… but Tarn keeps insisting it’s for the good of the team. Never mind about what’s good for ME…_

 _Stop it,_ she told herself firmly. She was being selfish, putting herself over the needs of the DJD. What did her life matter anyhow? If it hadn’t been for Kaon practically tripping over her chassis back on Prion and Vos begging the others to bring her aboard their ship – if only because he hoped to eventually get a chance to dissect her somewhere down the road – she wouldn’t even be functioning today. She owed them her life… and it seemed that the time had finally come for her to make that payment.

She reached the door of her quarters and scowled, planting her fists on her hips. “Do you mind?”

The Pet lay curled in front of her door, and it raised its head and regarded her with the haughty, aloof stare of an electrocat.

“Shove aside, scraplet,” she ordered. “Kaon might let you get away with parking your bushy-tailed aft wherever you please, but I’m not him. Move it.”

The Pet flicked its audial-flaps, as if trying to decide if it should be annoyed or not. It settled for looking Nickel straight in the optic as it heaved and ejected a mass of twisted wires and congealed fluids on the floor between them.

“Ugh!” She aimed a kick at the Pet that didn’t even come close to hitting its target before stomping off. “Fraggit, I’ll clean up after Tesarus and Helex and the others, but I draw the line at cleaning up after you! I’m leaving THAT for Kaon, the slagger.”

The Pet just curled back up and dropped offline. Good riddance, Nickel thought. So much for some alone time in her quarters…

She paused, pondering, then made for the ship’s doors. Tarn had ordered her to stay aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny,_ but given that this might be her last evening to herself, she felt entitled to a little disobedience at the moment. She just wanted to go for a walk, she told herself. She wouldn’t go far – just a few blocks. Maybe some fresh air through her fans would clear her CPU.

***

Almost as soon as the _Ember’s Hope_ touched down, Vos was scrambling down the gangplank, vibrating with barely restrained glee. An entirely new world to explore! No, not just a world – a universe! What wonders and marvels there must be to behold, what extraordinary things to discover! And what mysteries and legends this universe must have, what lore he could commit to memory…

He wanted to dash off into the wet, muggy night right away, and it was exquisite torture to stay where he was as the others disembarked. Kaon strode down with a regal grace, giving the slim archivist a tolerant smile.

“Vos, honestly,” he chided. “For being so terrified earlier, you’re rather eager to go dashing headlong into trouble now.”

Vos chirped and danced from one foot to the other. An unlucky shot by an Autobot sniper had destroyed his vocalizer over a vorn ago, and so he resorted to Binary to reply to Kaon’s comment. -Not going to get in trouble! I just want to go out and explore! So much to see! So much to hear! So many stories!-

“The stories will still be there in a breem or two,” Kaon assured him. “Let Tarn make sure the others are okay, and give the go-ahead for us to go out into the city. We’re still not sure if this universe is entirely safe yet.”

Vos snorted. -There’s Cybertronians on this planet. They don’t hate us enough to ban us. Safe enough, right?-

“Tarn just likes to be cautious,” Kaon reminded him. “There’s so much we don’t know about this universe. For all we know the war could be raging just as brutally here as it is back home.”

“Untrue,” Tarn announced, making his way down the gangplank at that moment with Tesarus close behind. “I tuned in to some of the local broadcasts just now. From everything I heard, there was a war here… a brutal one. But it has come to a close, and peace reigns on Cybertron for now.”

Kaon relaxed visibly at that. “Which side won? The Decepticons or…” He didn’t finish, as if by simply uttering the word “Autobot” he might bring some terrible fate down upon the five of them.

“It seems to have ended in a truce,” Tarn replied. “I didn’t hear much about the details, but some sort of mutual understanding between the two sides was reached.” He patted Tesarus’ arm. “Come on, Tes. It’s safe to leave the ship.”

“Are you sure?” Tesarus asked, frowning. “No offense, sir, but it seems that disaster strikes every time we set foot on a planet.”

“I promise you, everything will be fine,” Tarn assured him, patting him again. “Besides, I know you were looking for ingredients for your latest concoction. Perhaps you’ll find something exotic here to suit your tastes?”

That seemed to be the magic words as far as Tesarus was concerned – his X-shaped optic band lit up, and he descended the final few steps to the ground.

-Where’s Helex?- asked Vos, tilting his head to the side. -Isn’t he coming too?-

“He doesn’t feel good,” Tesarus replied. “Said something about the trip here making his tanks upset.”

Vos almost giggled at that, but held back out of sympathy. Tarn suspected that when Helex had last undergone an upgrade to his alternate mode, it had managed to wire his balance systems so they directly affected his fuel processing systems. Now whenever the larger mech underwent the slightest disturbance, be it a rougher-than-normal journey aboard the Hope or even something as simple as standing up too fast, he suffered from tank-aches or even violent bouts of purging. He insisted it was no big deal, but Vos knew that Tarn worried about him, and hoped that someday they could stop running long enough to get him to a proper surgeon instead of a field medic.

“We stay here long enough to refuel and resupply,” Tarn told them. “I don’t dare stay any longer. Until we can get to Cybertron proper and locate Megatron, it’s best if we don’t stay in one place for too long.”

Vos whined in dismay. Tarn’s decision might be safest, but it was _boring!_ How were they supposed to actually _learn_ anything about this new universe if they just dashed right through it without stopping? The only way to truly absorb information about a place was to slow down and let it soak in.

“Yes, Vos, I know you want to explore,” Tarn said with a soft, long-suffering tone. “But we have to do this the safe way. I won’t see any of us hurt or deactivated because we got careless. There’ll be plenty of time for you to go lore-hunting once we’ve established that it’s safe for us to do so.”

Vos gave a grumbly beep and looked down at the platform beneath his feet, determined to sulk. Tarn had already established that there wasn’t a war and that a truce was in effect between the Bots and Cons. How much safer could things be?

“Kaon, Tesarus, go into the city and secure energon, medical supplies, and whatever other materials we need to see us to Cybertron,” Tarn went on. “Vos, see if you can find a map of this quadrant of the galaxy, or at least one that will lead us to Cybertron. I’ll stay here and get the ship refueled and see to any repairs.”

“Got it, Boss,” Tesarus replied. “C’mon, Kaon, I want to see if they have that spicy energon mix here…”

Vos waited until Kaon and Tes had left and Tarn had turned his attention back to the ship before dashing off on his own errand. He’d do what he was told, of course – he wasn’t rebellious or anything. But slag it if that would be the ONLY thing he did while he was out and about. Finding a map would take a few kliks tops, and then from there he was sure he could find a bookstore or some equivalent. They still read books here, right? Or at least a bar where he could slip in, get a drink or two, and listen to whatever stories there were to share…

Two turns brought him to what appeared to be a night-life district, with neon signs glowing in the damp night and overcharged mechs stumbling in and out of establishments, laughing and conversing in too-loud voices. Vos tittered softly. Jackpot! Now to slide in, order a nice Sonic Screwdriver or whatever the local equivalent of his favorite drink was, and listen in for any good tales, or see if any spacers had a map of the quadrant they’d be willing to let go for a few credits…

Two mechs, one some kind of carformer and one wearing a war frame, stumbled out of an establishment whose sign billed it as the Rustbucket Inn, laughing over the tail end of a joke that must have been highly inappropriate but still amusing. The war-frame laid optics on him and immediately went quiet, mouth snapping shut and amber optics flaring brighter in shock. Vos just raised a hand and gave a tentative wave, hoping he looked small and non-threatening at the moment. Was there a way to advertise to fellow mechs that you were a pacifist and carried no cash without having to declare it at every opportunity…

“You got quiet inna hurry,” the war-frame’s buddy laughed. “Whassa matter, pretty cycle-former caught your optic? You always had a weakness for-“ The car-former’s visor locked onto Vos, and all color leached from the azure band. “Oh Primus frag me…”

Vos waved again with a nervous beep. -Just passing through for a drink, don’t mind me.- When that got him two blank stares, he realized these two might not know Binary and just raised his hands, showing he had no weapons and no ill intentions. He just wanted a drink and an interesting tale, he didn’t want any trouble, they could just walk right on by without pummeling him to scrap…

“Vos!” the war-frame croaked, stumbling backward a few steps. “DJD! Slaggit, the rumors were true! They’re in the system!”

“I thought they were just a myth!” the car-former shrieked, and backpedaled furiously. “Please, we’re not even Decepticons, we got no business with the DJD, we swear!”

Vos gave a confused trill. They were scared of… him? But he’d never raised a weapon in his life! He’d taken a vow of pacifism! And they were getting the acronym all wrong, to add insult to injury…

Before he could do anything to allay their fears, however, they had already turned and bolted, one of them shrieking like a femme and the other letting out a string of curse words that would have embarrassed a Junkion. He watched them vanish into the night, thoroughly baffled by this turn of events. Were small mechs like him really that terrifying here? Or were Decepticons some kind of monsters in this universe? No, it hadn’t been his faction exactly… they had been scared not by his sigil, but by him.

Still confused, he wandered into the Rustbucket Inn. A handful of mechs, some Cybertronian and others some kind of mechanical life form he didn’t recognize, were still conversing over drinks, but they went instantly silent and turned to stare at him. Optics brightened or widened in terror, fists clenched, hands strayed towards weapons. An ochre-colored mech in the corner practically fell backwards out of his chair and scrambled away. The bartender, a black-and-gray technorganic of some kind, just eyed him with contempt as he wiped out a glass with a rag.

Vos raised his hands and chirped. -Just here for a drink.-

“Your kind are NEVER just here for a drink,” the barkeep hissed, thunking the glass down on the bar with enough force to crack its base. “What do you want?”

-A drink?- he repeated. -And maybe a map of this quadrant? We just got here, we were hoping to find our way to Cybertron…- His voice trailed off as the bartender’s eyes got narrower and narrower. -Uh… never mind. I’ll go someplace else.-

His CPU whirled with confusion as he scurried out of the Inn, yellow organic eyes boring into him the entire way out. Slag, he’d never been treated like THAT before. Sure, he’d been roughed up a few times by Autobots and thugs who figured a little guy was easy pickings, but usually other mechs, especially Decepticons, recognized him as a member of the DHD, and were more than happy to see him and his comrades around. To be looked on with fear and disgust, treated like he was infected with rust or plague, was new and sparkbreaking… and not a little terrifying.

He darted further down the road, avoiding the other bars and clubs for now. There was a story here, and he had a feeling it had an ending he wouldn’t like. Best to just find Tarn’s map for now and get back to the _Ember's Hope_ before word spread that he was here. Or at least a version of him… though what kind of version of himself could inspire such terror he didn’t even want to imagine…

A sharp scream ripped through the night, and he froze in his tracks. What was that? It almost didn’t sound Cybertronian – one of the natives, or some kind of animal? No, there it was again. It was a Cybertronian voice all right… but one pushed so far into extremes of agony and fear that it sounded far more animal than anything sentient. And unless his audials were playing tricks on him, it was coming from close by.

Vos struggled to get his shaking under control and hurried toward the sound. Never mind that he was obviously seen as some kind of terrifying being here – it was his solemn duty as a member of the DHD to help any mech, especially a Decepticon, who was in some kind of distress. Even if that help only amounted to summoning the authorities… though some perverse part of him hoped that the danger would have passed by the time he got there, and all he would have to do was tend to the victim in the aftermath…

He turned to rush down an alley… and backpedaled quickly, ducking behind a barrel of refuse. The occupants of said alley missed his entrance entirely, thank Primus, their attentions focused on their victim.

It was horrifying. A greenish-colored helicopter-former lay on the ground, twitching and sparking with electricity as if he’d just suffered a terrible shock. His legs were gone to the knee, and from the shredded look of his thigh plating it appeared that the amputation had been anything but quick and clean. Fluids puddled beneath and around him, doubtless his own, and Vos wondered just how a mech could lose so much vital fluid and still be functioning.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Oh, no. Whoever had done this to him hadn’t been content with dismembering and electrocuting him. No, they had gutted him, tearing open his abdominal cavity and letting his internal components spill out in a sparking, glistening swath on the ground. The sight of seeing what should clearly never be outside a mech’s body spread out on the cold, dirty street made Vos’s tanks lurch, and he almost heaved.

“I’m impressed,” one of the taller mechs rumbled. “I’ve never seen a mech suffer this much damage and live. Your touch has gotten more deft, Tesarus.”

Vos jerked in shock. He knew that voice… he KNEW that voice! But it couldn’t be… there was no way… he was back at the ship with Helex, right? This couldn’t be…

“I still think my idea was better,” another voice grumbled. “But no, YOU said a mech couldn’t lose his brain module and his guts at the same time without shutting down instantly!”

“There will always be other mechs for you to perform that on,” the first voice assured him. “For now… I’m curious. Let’s see how long Obsidian lasts before he deactivates.”

Vos shook his head, trying to deny what he was hearing. That voice… it had to be Tarn’s. And the second voice sounded far too much like Helex for his peace of mind. But both mechs were back with the Spark’s Hope, right? They wouldn’t be out here torturing another mech for giggles…

The green mech scrabbled at the ground with his claws, trying to haul himself away from his captors. From his war-type build and the scarred look of his armor, Vos guessed he was a former soldier, perhaps even an officer. But evidently even a veteran warrior wasn’t immune to pain and mutilation as horrific as this…

A burst of some weird language – old Cybertronian, Vos realized – filled the alley. It took him a few minutes to understand the words – he was far more used to reading that ancient dialect than hearing it spoken – but when he deciphered their meaning a new horror filled his tanks. The speaker wanted his turn at “playing with” their victim… and he wanted to do something graphic and unsavory in an entirely different manner than simple physical torture.

“Oh, well, I don’t see why not,” Not-Tarn replied, a musical chuckle rumbling through his voice. “Very well, Vos… you may have your turn at him. Don’t be too loud when you overload, though.”

His pump thudded in terror, so loudly he wondered if Not-Tarn could hear it. Vos? But… but he was Vos… the mech out there couldn’t be…

An excited trill was his answer, and a thin, short mech hurried forward. Vos watched with a thrill of horror as he bent down and fumbled with Obsidian’s panel, quivering with excitement. The green mech’s optics widened with realization, and he delivered another piercing shriek and tried to swat the thin mech away, but a hulking mech grabbed his arms and held him in place…

Vos could watch no more. Perhaps a braver mech like Tarn or Kaon might have been able to emerge from the shadows and save the poor mech – or at least taken aim and fired, giving him the mercy of a quick death – but Vos wasn’t that brave. And witnessing such a gruesome act of torture… it was more than he could take.

His pedes splashed through a puddle of what he hoped was water as he bolted away from the alley. The others… he had to warn the others! The DHD – no, the _DJD_ – were monsters here, and if they stayed in this universe any longer they would surely be hunted as such!

***

Nickel scowled as another shriek split the night, this one somehow worse than all the others. Fraggit, would they just finish the mech off already and be done with it? This walk would be so much more relaxing if it wasn’t for the fuel-curdling screaming. Would she ever get a moment to herself without those five ruining it?

 _Not after tonight,_ she remembered, and growled to herself. Once those five came back and washed the energon and other, less savory fluids off, they’d be expecting to bond. These were her last moments of true privacy, and it figured that those idiots would find some way to ruin even that.

The screaming reached a terrible crescendo, then cut off abruptly. Something in her internals relaxed at that. No matter what Tarn said about exacting justice, no matter her loyalty to their cause, she still didn’t like to see or hear what they did directly. It wasn’t pleasant, and it brought back painful memories… memories of crawling through wreckage, seeing her friends and comrades torn asunder, bodies ripped open and faceplates locked in expressions of horror…

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she never saw the vehicle, an automated street sweeper that operated almost silently at the request of the inhabitants of this neighborhood. Before she even realized what was happening, it had scooped her up with a scattering of detritus and was whirling her in circles, the wire bristles scouring her plating and eliciting a string of curses in several languages.

The sweeper carried her a good hundred yards before finally spitting her out with the rest of its accumulated debris… straight over the edge of the platform and into the muck of the swamps.

***

Vos was lost – there was no denying it. Somehow in his terror he’d managed to get himself completely turned around in this unfamiliar spaceport-city. He bolted from alley to alley, quivering with fright, expecting at any moment for someone to lunge out and crush him, declaring him a monster… or worse, for his doppelganger to tackle him to the ground and assault him…

 _Calm down!_ he told himself. _You’re making it worse!_ But how was he supposed to calm down when he was in a totally new universe where another version of himself was apparently a sadistic rapist and serial killer? How was anyone supposed to remain calm after that?

_Vos?_

He shrieked and leaped nearly half his height into the air. -Don’t hurt me!-

_Vos, are you all right? You’ve been gone for too long! Kaon and Tesarus came back ages ago; you have us worried…_

_-Oh… oh, it’s you.-_ It was his Tarn, not the other one… and he wasn’t lurking behind him, ready to pounce and rip him open. Just contacting him on the radio.

_Vos, you need to come back to the ship, Tarn ordered. Kaon and Tesarus have discovered some disturbing facts about this universe..._

_-Me too-_ Vos added. _-Oh Tarn, it’s terrible! I just saw-_

 _We’ll have time to talk about it aboard the_ Hope. _Get back to the ship now! Even if you don’t have the map! You’ve been gone too long and we’re all frantic with worry!_

Vos almost replied that he was lost and had no idea how to get back to the _Hope,_ but at that moment he reached the edge of the city… and the swamp. He barely skidded to a halt in time to avoid plunging straight over the edge. Okay, this wasn’t so bad… he had a point of reference, at least. And since the Hope was parked on a landing pad right by the swamp, all he had to do was follow the edge of the swamp. He just hoped he wouldn’t inadvertently take the long way around…

A yelp echoed through the night, and Vos cringed. He didn’t want to hear another scream as long as he lived! But this didn’t sound like a cry of pain, not exactly… more like an angry explitive.

His optics caught a flash of metal out in the bog, and he focused his gaze on the source – a mech floundering in the muck, cursing and thrashing but being sucked deeper with every passing moment. Whoever it was, they flailed frantically, but their voice was a string of foul words that sounded far more angry than frightened.

Vos didn’t think twice – he launched himself over the edge. He squealed as cold, slimy mud closed in over his chassis, but he clawed his way through the sludge and toward the struggling mech. Perhaps he couldn’t save Obsidian, but he’d be slagged if he let another mech die when he could do something to stop it.

The mech was far smaller than he’d first thought, even smaller than a minibot. And just moments before he reached her – for he just now realized that the voice was distinctly feminine – she shuddered and went frighteningly still, not resisting as the muck drew her in deeper. Her vents must have flooded, he realized, and she’d short-circuited and been knocked offline. A short-circuit wasn’t anything GOOD, but at least it wasn’t fatal… provided she didn’t sink to the bottom of the swamp.

His hand closed around her arm, and he dragged her back to the surface. Then he dug and clawed his way back to the edge of the city. Now to get her back to the _Spark’s Hope_ and… oh. Fraggit, he’d jumped before making sure there was a way to climb back up onto the platform. He was stuck down here.

_Vos? Where are you?_

_-Uh… funny story, really… would you believe I’m stuck in the mud? Just off from the warehouse district, wherever that is.-_

Tarn – his Tarn, at least – was a remarkably patient mechanism, but even he had his limits. He gave a long, soft sigh of his fans over the comm before replying. _I’m coming to get you. You’d better have a good reason for jumping over the edge of the city._

_-There was a femme stuck out there! Had to save her! She’s knocked out, got mud in her systems, but she’s still functioning! I couldn’t just leave her out there to rust!-_

Tarn, to his credit, didn’t complain further. _I’ll come fetch the both of you, then. We’ll clean her up and tend to her as best we can on our way out of here. If we’ve managed to do a little good during our brief stay here, then perhaps this stop wasn’t entirely in vain._

Vos relaxed and hoisted the tiny femme in his arms as he waited for Tarn. The captain was right, as he always was. At least some good had come out of all this mess, right?


	3. Chapter 3

Tarn prided himself in being an observant mechanism. It took a sharp optic to determine when a mech in his team’s clutches was on the verge of deactivation, and how much to dial back on their “treatment” in order to keep him functioning. Likewise, his powers of observation were invaluable in detecting the first stirrings of rebellion and treason in the members of his team, and ferreting out lies and plots from among those he interacted with. While his powers of deadly persuasion had made him infamous among the Decepticons, his keen sight and mind were even more valuable tools in his appointed task to eliminate the traitors from among Megatron’s forces.

So it was no surprise that he sensed something was amiss the moment he set foot aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Aside from a pile of purged scrap and fluids in a hallway courtesy of the Pet, there was no physical sign of anything wrong… but he wasn’t about to take a chance. It was too quiet, too peaceful, without the usual sounds of stomping and cursing he’d come to expect upon their return…

“Next time I get to call the shots on what we do with the prisoner,” Helex grumbled. “Haven’t gotten to play with a brain module in a long time.”

“Only you’d consider that stupidity fun,” Tesarus replied, cuffing him upside the head. “I’m off to see Nickel. Think the chopper-bot left bits in my shredder.”

“Oh, she’ll love you for that,” Kaon noted dryly.

“No one is going anywhere,” Tarn declared, holding an arm out to bar the others from going any further into the ship.

Vos hissed in protest and tried to duck under his arm. _“Going somewhere all right. Medbay to get dents out of my pelvic armor! Then the wash racks! Obsidian was a messy interface!”_

“No one goes _anywhere,_ ” Tarn repeated in a dangerous tone. “Something’s wrong.”

“What, besides Pet vomit on the floor?” Tesarus huffed. “I swear, if you don’t get that thing’s guts fixed, Kaon, Imma fling it out the airlock by its tail when we go into deep space-”

“Shut. Up,” Tarn rumbled, glowering at the taller mech. Blast it all, there were times he was convinced that he worked with complete idiots.

Tesarus huffed but clamped his jaw.

“What’s wrong, sir?” Kaon asked, frowning. “None of us are seeing what you’re seeing…”

 _“You’re not seeing anything!”_ Vos twittered cruelly, jabbing him in the side with a claw. Kaon slapped his hand away, scowling.

Tarn walked toward the door to Nickel’s quarters, stepping over the Pet’s “gift” and using his security code to override the room’s lock. Despite being one of the tiniest mechanisms Tarn had ever met outside of Soundwave’s cassettes, Nickel had been given full-sized quarters, a fact she griped about constantly. Strange… most mechs would appreciate having roomy personal quarters. Then again, most mechs didn’t need to push a crate around to reach countertops or the berth-side table…

His optics narrowed as he stepped into the darkened room, automatically adjusting for the limited light. Nickel lived in spartan conditions, the only furniture in the room being the minibot-sized berth, the full-sized table and desk that had belonged to their previous medic, and a crate Nickel used to reach the tops of said desk and table. The only signs of personal effects were a scattering of medical-journal datapads on the berth and a tiny holo-snapshot of an unidentified mech from Nickel’s past hanging from a leg of the table. Of Nickel herself there was no sign – and judging by the smoothness of the foam padding on the berth, she hadn’t simply laid down for a nap while the others had been gone.

“Search the ship,” Tarn ordered.

“Huh?” Helex scowled. “For what? You think someone booby-trapped the _Tyranny_ while we were gone or somethin’?”

“I think our medic has gone missing,” Tarn replied. “Again, search the ship. Find her. We’re not leaving this planet without her.”

 _“Can’t it wait until I’ve had a shower?”_ demanded Vos. _“I feel gross…”_

“We’re all gross!” Tesarus pointed out. “You think you’re the only one with fluids all over you? Not to mention I was the one that had to drop what was left of him in the swamps, and I’ve got some kind of organic sludge on my legs…”

Tarn turned and slammed his fist into the wall with enough force to punch through the metal. The bickering subsided, though the move earned him a venomous (if empty-opticked) glower from Kaon.

“No one will go to the washracks until Nickel is found,” he replied. “Find her. Kaon, help me search the ship. Tesarus, Helex, Vos, go out and search the city. I gave her orders to stay aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , but she may have chosen to disregard them.”

“May have?” Helex laughed sourly. “You know her, she probably took off just to spite you. What’d you do to scare her off anyhow? Thought this one was actually a keeper for once.”

Tarn glowered at the four-armed mech. “Find her. I am losing my patience. We do not leave this planet without her. That is final.”

Helex growled wordlessly but stalked off anyhow. Tesarus had his chest cavity open and was preoccupied with prying loose bits of green alloy out of his shredder blades, but a poke from Vos got him moving. Kaon waited for the other three to depart before turning toward Tarn, empty optic cavities staring blankly ahead but a frown quirking his fuel intake.

“You said she had agreed to the bonding,” he noted. “Do you think she had second thoughts?”

Tarn half-sighed, half-snorted as he set a hand on the smaller mech’s shoulder and directed him further into the ship. “Nickel is not a femme who is prone to staying quiet if something disagrees with her. If she had second thoughts, she would have voiced them. Not run away to hide from her problems.”

Kaon shrugged. “Mechs often act in strange ways when they’re frightened. Just look at how many supposedly fearless Decepticons are reduces to a wailing mess when we find them. We don’t even have to lay a digit on most of them before they’re screaming with terror.”

Tarn nodded. “It is a shame… here I thought Nickel would be the one. The anchor that kept our team balanced and focused. For all her fits of temper, she was level-headed – something rare among Decepticon-kind.”

Kaon was silent as they pressed through the ship, stopping occasionally to let his scanners comb over an area for any sign of the dimunitive medic. When he spoke again it was in a hushed tone, as if he worried that Nickel were nearby and could overhear. “If she doesn’t come back of her own accord… what then?”

Tarn shuttered his optics, and when he answered it was in a tone that was as close to regretful as he could ever manage. “It’s entirely possible that someone on the List snatched her for ransom purposes – her life in exchange for striking their name from the List, perhaps. If that’s the case, we need only wait for them to contact us, and destroy them for their impunity. If she has purposefully run away… then we add another name to the List.”

Kaon’s frown deepened. “You would have our medic declared a traitor?”

“Abandoning her team in their moment of greatest need? Putting her own petty desires above the needs of the Decepticon Justice Division? I would classify that as an act of treason.” Tarn led Kaon into the medbay for a more thorough search. “Besides, she knows too much. Our physical weaknesses, what names remain on the List, even our true identities… all information she could exploit or sell for her own gain. For Nickel’s sake, I hope she either got lost on the way back or was abducted... because she knows full well what lies in store for her should she have fled of her own accord.”

***

Aboard the _Ember_ _’s Hope_ , a good distance from Bast and its terrifying revelations, the DHD gathered to await news of their tiny foundling. Tarn, Kaon, and Tesarus stood outside a portable washrack, listening to the sounds of water on metal, hoping for some kind of update. Occasionally they could hear a faint croon or twitter from Vos, as if he were trying to coax the little femme awake, but there was no response save the rush of cleanser.

Finally the doors of the washrack opened, and Vos stepped out, still carrying his newfound charge. Bast’s mud and slime had been cleaned from both their chassis, though now that the filth was gone the myriad scratches and dents in the femme’s plating were all too visible. None of the damages looked fatal, but all the same, Tarn worried that whatever had thrown her into the swamp in the first place had inflicted some terrible internal damages that none of them knew how to fix.

The washrack shuddered, then disconnected an array of pipes and tubes from the wall before shifting back to robot mode. Helex braced both right hands against the wall and pressed his left hands to his abdomen, ensuring he wouldn’t lose his fuel from the sudden transformation before speaking up.

“Vos and I did all we could,” he said in a shaky voice. “The mud should be out of her internals now. If nothing else is wrong, she should come online soon.”

“Thank you, Helex,” Tarn replied. “We appreciate all you do. Sit down and let your tanks settle while we tend to her.”

Helex nodded gratefully and sank into the chair Tesarus pulled out for him.

“Vos?” Tarn inquired as the archivist carried their new charge to a berth and laid her down. “Did you see anything unusual while cleaning her out?” As the smallest member of their team, the archivist had been chosen to open her up and clear the mud from her systems – his fingers were small and delicate enough to get the job done without damaging her further.

Vos chirped and fussed over her, ensuring she was laying comfortably, before answering. -No damages I could see. Ember’s all weird, though… almost like it’s not even an ember but something else entirely. Reversed polarity for some reason. These mechs might be built like us, but they’re definitely not the same.-

“Odd,” Tarn noted. “Then again, we are in a different universe. One where we’re apparently monsters and the Decepticons started the Great War. I suppose we should expect other things to be different as well.” He sighed and dragged another chair over, sitting down close to the berth.

“That leads us to another question, Captain,” Kaon replied. “What do we do now? We came to this universe hoping for sanctuary, and given everything we’ve discovered, we’re unlikely to find it here.”

Tarn sighed again and reached up to rub his temples. “I don’t know. I… I had hoped that in coming here we could rendezvous with this universe’s equivalent of Megatron, and offer our services. Even if there had been another DHD here, we could have worked alongside them. But with Megatron in Autobot custody and our equivalent here being a gang of sociopaths… I don’t know anymore.” He looked down at his hands, then back up at the others. “I apologize for bringing you here…”

“Don’t be sorry, sir,” Tesarus insisted. “You did what you believed was best. How were we supposed to know what this universe was gonna be like? We pretty much jumped in blind, and besides, we all knew the risks!”

“It was either come here or allow Rodimus to kill us… or worse,” Kaon added. “Perhaps this universe isn’t ideal, but at least here we have options. Had the _Sword of Darkness_ caught up with us, we’d have no such – uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” Tarn glanced up sharply. “Kaon, what’s wrong? Is it your optics?”

He nodded, hands raised like a blind mech trying to find something solid to cling to. “My vision’s gone to static. A reboot didn’t help.”

“Here, let me.” Tarn stood and rested a careful hand on Kaon’s helm, then gently lifted it enough to expose a nest of wires. “Vos, can you help me? My hands are too big and clumsy for this.”

Vos beeped assent and hurried over. His slender fingers delved into the wires, finding the cluster of nerve cables that connected optics to CPU and carefully twisting and jiggling them. Kaon’s optics flickered briefly, and his faceplate contorted in a wince, but he did his best not to move.

-Tell me if you see something, Kaon.-

“Still static,” Kaon replied. “Wait, something’s coming back… there!”

Vos jerked his hands back, and Tarn replaced his helm. “Did that do the trick?”

Kaon nodded, relaxing. “Vision’s restored. Still no color, though.”

Tarn nodded, giving Kaon’s helm one final pat as if that would restore everything to full. Like Helex, Kaon had been suffering a chronic glitch for the past several orns, though his had nothing to do with his fuel systems. Instead, his vision would short out, either fuzzing to static or blanking out entirely. Vos had learned to jury-rig the optical wires enough to restore most of his sight, but he had entirely lost the ability to see in color. And though Kaon insisted that he could learn to live with it, Tarn desperately wished his team could stop running long enough for their pilot to see a proper medic about the issue.

“What about the femme?” asked Helex. “What are we going to do with her?”

Tarn opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again when he realized he had no answer. Taking her aboard the ship had been a spur-of-the-moment decision – it was their duty, after all, to help any Decepticon in distress. But in their haste to get off the planet before they were either mistaken for the DJD and attacked or hunted down by their sadistic counterparts, they had ended up abducting the femme entirely by accident. No doubt she had a home on Bast, and friends who were wondering what had happened to her. And when she came back online, what would she do when she found she had been snatched and spirited away?

He couldn’t bring himself to regret saving her… he just hoped she would forgive them for the accidental kidnapping. If nothing else, he supposed they could drop her off on the nearest spaceport world with enough shanix to make it back to Bast. It was the least they could do to make up for the inconvenience.

Vos trilled and tugged at Tarn’s arm. -She’s waking up!-

“Ah, good! Do try not to hover over her, Vos dear… you don’t want to startle her…”

***

For most mechanisms, coming online to find Vos’ masked face filling your vision was their worst nightmare. For Nickel, it happened often enough that she was mostly used to it. So long as all her bodily components were inside her chassis where they belonged, it was just another one of the annoyances she put up with as an unofficial member of the Decepticon Justice Division.

She stared blankly up at Vos, trying to reboot her databanks. The last thing she remembered was the feeling of cold mud flooding her vents, a moment of terror as she sank into the murky depths, a hand grabbing for her arm…

It took her a moment to realize that the DJD must have found her and pulled her out. And someone must have had the sense to open her up and clean the crud out of her chassis – most likely Tarn, the others didn’t have the sense that Primus gave a Morphobot. So the old junker had a spark after all… or he just deemed her valuable enough to not leave to rust in the swamp. Either way, she owed him her life yet again.

Which meant she was more bound than ever to join her sparks to him and his team. Joy. Though given that she’d just gone through a near-death situation, maybe she could convince him to delay the bonding until she’d fully recovered. She could hope, at any rate…

Vos tilted his head to one side and gave a sparkling-like chirp. If the sound had come from any mechanism besides Vos, it might have sounded almost cute.

“Get outta my face!” she growled, planting a wheeled pede in his chest and shoving him back. “If you think you’re taking advantage of the situation to vivisect me, you’re dumber than I took you for.”

Vos squealed and backed away, hands raised, optics bright and startled.

“Easy, my lady,” a rich, deep voice purred, and Tarn rose from a chair nearby. “He was simply worried about you. We were beginning to think you’d been damaged internally.”

“I’m fine,” she huffed, pushing herself to a sitting-up position. “No thanks to some idiot who thinks street-sweepers need to run on silent.” She stared at Tarn a moment, then rebooted her optics and peered through slitted optic shutters. Weird… his colors were off. Instead of his usual violet, black, and silver, he was a striking combination of crimson and gold and white, with only the tires mounted on either shoulder remaining black. Either he’d gone and gotten a new paint job after taking care of Obsidian, or her spectrum calculator had been knocked out of whack.

“How do you feel?” Tarn asked, his voice gentle and soothing as if talking to a youngling. “Does anything hurt? You can tell us, though I regret we can’t do much about it… none of us are trained medics…”

“I’m fine, fraggit,” she huffed, checking her diagnostics over. No internal damages, and just some surface dings and scrapes to her exterior. Her sensors registered some internal moisture, but she chalked that up to someone rinsing out her insides to get the mud out. At least someone had some common sense.

“You’re certain?”

“Frag yes, I am,” she snapped. “I’m used to fixing my own damages by now. And I know you idiots don’t know even basic first aid – you’re better at taking ‘em apart, after all.”

Those words were barbed, aimed to hurt, but she expected them to bounce right off the uncaring Tarn. To her shock, he actually flinched, and nearby Vos and Kaon recoiled as if physically struck. Both of them were different colors than she was used to as well – Vos was the same crimson-gold-white as Tarn, while Kaon shone a regal violet with gold trim. Incredibly, his optics glowed with an amber light, something she couldn’t chalk up to a faulty spectrum calculator. Why had he gone and gotten his optics replaced when they were just going to short out again?

“Ma’am,” Kaon said softly, “there seems to be a misunderstanding.”

“Why the formality all of a sudden, Kaon?” she demanded, wriggling to the edge of the berth and making to slide off… only for Tarn to push her back down.

“Please, my lady,” he urged. “You need to rest. Your vents flooded; even I, a non-medic, know that you need to rest and recover after that.”

“Who’s the medic here?” she snapped, kicking at his hand. “Fraggit, Tarn, let me up! What the slag is wrong with you anyhow? You NEVER fuss over me this much! And stop calling me ‘lady!’”

Even through the Decepticon-symbol mask, Nickel could see Tarn’s optics narrow quizzically. “I’m only trying to be polite, my lady. It’s a proper way to refer to someone you don’t know… oh… oh dear.” He drew his hand back and stared at her, comprehension dawning in his gaze. “You know them… you don’t just know OF them, you’re close to them…”

She frowned. “What the slag is wrong with you? Who’s ‘them?’ You’re acting really weird – weirder than normal, anyhow – and it’s starting to creep me out.”

Tarn and Kaon exchanged a long look, as if silently communicating something between them. Then Kaon gave an imperceptible nod, and Tarn turned back to Nickel and spoke again.

“We are… not who you think we are.”

She stared at Tarn, wondering what the slag he was talking about. Had Obsidian knocked him in the cranial unit during his “session” and rattled his CPU?

Then her optic shutters widened as she took him in fully – the altered colors, the crimson Decepticon sigil, the optics that somehow managed to look almost kindly behind the perpetually-scowling mask. There was nothing wrong with her spectrum calculator – he was truly a different set of colors. And that wasn’t the only difference… there was a long scratch across his mask that hadn’t been there when he’d left the Tyranny, and it looked nowhere near fresh enough for their target to have inflicted it on him. Likewise, the patterns of scratches and dings in his armor were different, some of the scuffs she had mentally tagged to buff out later missing and replaced by different ones in different locations.

This wasn’t Tarn. She had no idea who he was or what in the Pit had possessed him to imitate the build of the Decepticon Justice Division’s leader, but he sure as slag wasn’t Tarn.

Vos – or rather, Not-Vos, as he, too, bore different colors and a different set of surface scratches – reached a hand out to her, beeping softly in some old form of Binary. The words were incomprehensible to her, but the general tone seemed to ask if she was okay.

She reacted purely out of instinct, yanking a scalpel out of her toolset and slamming it into his hand. Not-Vos shrieked and yanked his hand back, staring at it with an expression of hurt astonishment.

“My lady!” Not-Tarn approached her, hands raised as if trying to placate an enraged Dinobot. “Please, violence is uncalled for…”

“Who the FRAG are you?!” she snarled, drawing another scalpel and raising it threateningly over her helm. “Don’t you DARE touch me! Any of you!”

“Ma’am, we only want to help you!” Not-Kaon protested. “Please calm down!”

“Oh, like slag I’m gonna calm down,” she growled. “Who are you, and what the PIT possessed the lot of you to impersonate the DJD? Do you all have a death wish? Because that’s a surefire way to land your sorry afts on the List!”

“If you would just listen to us for one moment…” Not-Tarn insisted.

“No, YOU listen!” she snapped. “I dunno who you are or where you’ve taken me, but you are going to take me back where you found me THIS instant, or so help me the REAL Tarn will hunt the lot of you down and turn you all into scrap! Slowly!”

Not-Vos shrieked and huddled against Not-Tarn’s side, shaking in fright. Not-Kaon, too, stepped closer to the larger mech, and the masked imposter reached out to pull him closer. The towering mech impersonating Tesarus actually hunkered down behind Not-Tarn, as if trying to hide his considerable bulk, while the false Helex scooted his chair further away as if she were a vicious turbohound.

“My lady,” Not-Tarn said softly, his voice wavering with the effort to keep it calm, “we wish you no ill. Vos found you in the swamps and brought you to our ship to revive you. We only wished to help… and we certainly didn’t mean to make you a prisoner. Nor do we wish to anger your friends.” He inclined his head in a semi-bow. “Please… we have been fugitives for so long. We don’t want to make another set of enemies. Not now.”

The sight of five mechs larger than she was – in some cases MUCH larger – and wearing the frames of the most ruthless band of murderers in the galaxy cowering in fright finally eased some of Nickel’s anger. The five of them looked so terrified that she almost felt sorry for the threat. Why they would choose to impersonate the Decepticon Justice Division she had no idea, but it was obvious that though they looked like “her” DJD, they had almost nothing in common with them otherwise.

That didn’t mean she was going to let them off the hook for abducting her… but maybe she could find a way to make this easier on all of them, without threatening to have them added to the List.

She hesitated, then lowered the scalpel, though she didn’t sheathe it right away. “Answer some questions for me, then. Who are you, where am I, why the frag do you wear the names and chassis of the Decepticon Justice Division, and where the frag are we headed?”

Not-Tesarus peered out from behind Not-Tarn, his X-shaped visor glowing a brilliant turquoise instead of the scarlet she was used to. “P-please don’t swear so much.”

“I’ll swear as much as I slagging like,” she retorted. “Answer the questions. Who, where, why, and where again.”

“The last one even we can’t answer,” Not-Tarn replied. “We came to this universe through a rift that carried us through the Nexus Point, hoping for sanctuary… though given the state of this universe, we have no idea where said sanctuary exists. As for your other questions… you are aboard the _Ember's Hope_ , our vessel. We are… well, you know our names already, but for formality’s sake, I am Captain Tarn, leader of the Decepticon Homemaking Division.”

Nickel stared at Not-Tarn for a long moment, a moment thick with tension as the rest of the DHD trembled anxiously, awaiting her reaction. Then, as much to her surprise as any of theirs, she burst into laughter.

“How’s this funny?” Not-Helex demanded. “I don’t see how any of this whole situation’s funny.”

“My lady, are you all right?” asked Not-Tarn with a tilt of his helm, sounding genuinely concerned for her sanity.

“You have… got… to be… slagging… KIDDING me!” Nickel got out between bouts of laughter.

“Please stop swearing,” Not-Tesarus pleaded.

“I can assure you we are being completely serious, my lady,” Not-Tarn replied. “We wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“Seriously?” she demanded, still cackling. “The _Homemaking_ Division? You make it sound like you’re a bunch of old femmes who stay at home and clean houses and cook energon treats! What a name…”

Not-Vos looked up at Not-Tarn and burbled something in Binary. Not-Tarn just shook his head and held his hand out to her. She shut up in a hurry and backed away, scalpel raised just in case this pretender was about to try something funny, but he only held his hand out flat as a sort of platform.

“Come with me,” he told her. “I’ll explain everything. Just… promise you’ll keep the laughter to a minimum until I’m finished.”

She nodded, and she subspaced the scalpel before stepping into his hand. If he tried anything stupid the blade would be within reach, but seeing as he was promising her some kind of answers, perhaps she wouldn’t need it. She just hoped that whoever and whatever these mechs were, they didn’t mean her team any harm. Otherwise they’d find that they had a LOT more to fear from her than from the DJD…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The "Shattered Glass" DJD, of course, don't have the same jobs as the regular-universe DJD, and thus they needed a different name. Hence, DHD -- one letter over on the keyboard. Yes, "Decepticon Homemaking Division" sounds a little goofy, but I swear there's a legitimate reason behind the name, which DHD Tarn will explain next chapter...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: So I screwed up and forgot that in the "Shattered Glass" universe they don't have sparks -- they have embers. And I went and named the DHD's ship "Spark's Hope." Silly me... Have gone back and changed the name in all the previous chapters.

Tarn had never met a mechanism quite like this little femme. Despite her diminutive size – he could carry her in one hand with ease – she had the ferocity and venom of an Autobot Seeker. Even as he carried her through the ship and toward the bridge, hand cupped against his chest, he could feel her tiny body taut with an angry wariness. She was just waiting for him to make a wrong move, he realized, waiting for him to drop her or raise a hand against her that she might defend herself.

 _You’ve been through a lot in your life, haven’t you, little one?_ He recognized the signs of a mech who had suffered at the hands of another, and chose to protect themselves by building walls and unleashing their pain as anger at the world around them. Though what kind of tragedy or trauma could she have gone through that would push her to ally herself with a band of obvious psychopaths?

He wanted to know… but he didn’t dare ask. She might take offense to the question, and he would lose the sliver of progress he’d already made. Still, he had made it his life’s mission to help ease the pain of others, and it gnawed at him like a rust-mite infestation to not be able to help their accidental captive.

“You gonna talk or do I have to play the telepath game?” she asked acerbically, tapping his chest.

“If you’re a telepath, it’s only proper etiquette to ask permission before reading my CPU,” he informed her, settling himself in the co-pilot’s chair. The _Ember’s Hope_ was on automatic pilot, currently orbiting a rocky planetoid over a dozen light-years from Bast, but even if a pilot wasn’t needed he liked to come here and watch the stars go by. It soothed him somehow, a gentle reminder that for all the chaos and grief of the war, the universe carried on as it always did.

“I was joking,” she retorted. “You gonna talk or not?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Patience is not one of your virtues, is it?”

“Virtues of any sort aren’t worth a bent shanix in this universe. Dunno how it is with yours.”

“The Decepticons still prize concepts such as honor, honesty, and courage. Though with the Autobots gaining more ground every day, I fear our race will go extinct, and those virtues with them.”

She looked up at him, faceplate contorted with confusion. “Your universe sounds back-aftward to me.”

“From the scant information we’ve gathered… I’m inclined to agree.” He raised a finger to rub her back, an unconscious gesture that he often found comforted smaller mechs, but she slapped the digit away. “Sorry… force of habit.”

“Talk, don’t touch,” she ordered. “Not a touchy-feely type, especially when it’s someone who looks like you. No offense.”

He wondered if the Tarn she knew had ever hurt her… and if so, why she stuck around. Though it wasn’t uncommon for victims to cling to their abusers, preferring the devil they knew to the terror of the unknown. “I will keep the history lesson short – if you want a more detailed history, Vos would be happy to oblige you. But the gist of it is that Optimus, the Mad Prime, has subjugated our Cybertron and dozens of other worlds under his tyrannical reign, and his Autobots are only too happy to enforce his rule. Megatron has rallied a resistance movement, the Decepticons, to overthrow him, and the war continues to this day… though at the time we departed it seemed our efforts were slowly failing.”

“So you took off to save your own afts?”

Her blunt assessment made his ember jolt in its chamber, and he scrambled to defend himself. “We did not abandon the cause. Coming here was an act of desperation – it was either venture into the dimensional rift, or allow ourselves to be captured and executed by Rodimus Prime and his gang of thugs.”

“You saved your own afts,” she pointed out. “Though I suppose if your choices are desertion or execution, most mechs would choose desertion.”

He gusted out a sigh. “Tact isn’t one of your virtues either, I suppose. But… yes. We chose to save ourselves by abandoning our universe. If the opportunity ever arises for us to return home, we will take it in a pump-beat… but for now, we had hoped to do the next best thing.”

“Find another Megatron to serve? Hmm. Good luck with that. Last I heard, our Megatron was in Autobot custody. Plus I doubt he’s anything like yours – he’s a miner-turned-gladiator-turned-revolutionary who doesn’t exactly take the soft-sparked approach to things.”

“I assumed as much.” Tarn sighed again and shuttered his optics. “This Megatron already has his DHD… or DJD, as it were. And it would seem their aims are far different from ours.”

She wriggled in his hand, making herself comfortable. “The Decepticon Justice Division hunts down traitors, deserters, and others who’ve crossed Megatron or violated his laws and codes, and make examples out of ‘em. And let’s just say they’re really good at – and love – their jobs.”

Tarn couldn’t suppress a shudder at that, and she swore softly as she gripped his fingers to keep from tumbling out of his hand. He forced himself to hold still. Primus, but he was making a terrible first impression on their guest.

“So what exactly does a Decepticon Homemaking Division do?” she asked, her voice thick with barely suppressed laughter.

“The war in our universe has left a swath of destruction in its wake… and countless lives broken beyond repair. My comrades and I have made it our mission to find those who have been hurt worst by the war, heal and comfort them to the best of our ability, and find them new homes away from the fighting.”

“So you run mercy missions? Thought none of you was a medic, though.”

“None of us our medics… but then, we don’t heal physical wounds, but mental and psychological damages, which can be just as painful and even lethal. We have helped establish safe colonies on neutral worlds, aided refugees in finding said safe colonies, and provided comfort to the dying on the battlefield. And we have made it our mission to help those in distress wherever we may find them.”

“…huh.” She processed that a moment. “You really are the polar opposite of my guys.”

Tarn nodded. “When Vos found you floundering in the mud, close to shutdown, he didn’t even think twice about rescuing you. He was simply fulfilling the mission we have always set out to do – helping others in need. We did not intend to kidnap you… we simply did a bad job of combining a rescue mission with a flight for our safety. Your… friends… have a reputation that, unfortunately, affects us as well.”

She huffed softly. “Doesn’t matter what you intended or not – you still kidnapped me.”

“And for that, I am sorry. But do understand – the safety of my team must come before all else. We don’t want to attract the DJD’s attention… they may take the fact that we wear their faces and names treason.”

“If impersonating the DJD’s not a treasonous act, I’m sure my Tarn’d find some other excuse,” she noted, more to herself than to him. “Ya know… you can just drop me off on the nearest inhabited world and I can contact them from there. You’d have time to disappear while they come get me.”

“That sounds like the best option,” Tarn acknowledged. “In the meantime… make yourself comfortable aboard the _Ember’s Hope._ My team would be happy to assist you in any way.”

She grunted and clambered down from his hand, sliding down his leg to the floor. “Just find me a corner to rest in until we get there. I ain’t picky and don’t need much.”

Tarn chuckled. “I’m appalled, my lady, that you’d think we’d resign you to a corner of the ship. We have guest quarters, you know.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m tiny,” she retorted. “I’d get lost in full-size quarters. I’m fine with a cupboard or something.”

“You are a guest,” he insisted. “You will be treated with the proper respect.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Though I’ve been terribly rude to you, my lady – I haven’t even asked you your name.”

“Nickel… it’s Nickel.”

“Nickel… a unique name, simple but elegant.” He offered her a polite bow. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Nickel.”

“Well, aren’t YOU a charmer,” she noted, and actually smiled a little. “Well, show me these guest quarters of yours, and I’ll stay out of your wiring until we get to civilization, all right?”

“It would be my pleasure, Madam Nickel.”

“Just Nickel. None of this fancy slag, a’right?”

“Very well, Just Nickel… this way.”

“And now you’re a smart-aft on top of it.” But she laughed softly as she followed him toward the living quarters of the _Hope,_ which helped ease the weight on Tarn’s ember. At least she had a sense of humor, which as far as he was concerned was a good sign. Perhaps they could escape this whole situation without earning their dark doubles’ wrath after all.

***

Kaon had Tesarus stretched out on the berth in his quarters when Tarn walked in – it was an unspoken rule that if the door was open, anyone was free to come in. The violet-and-gold mech was working on the larger mech’s neck joint, easing out the kinks in the wiring and tubing, but looked up with an arched optic ridge as the Captain entered.

“We’ve made a bargain,” Tarn told his second-in-command without preamble, easing himself into a too-small chair in a corner. “We will carry Nickel – our new passenger – to the nearest inhabited world and leave her there. From there she may contact her comrades, and we will be long gone before they arrive to collect her. In return, she will request that the DJD not hunt us.”

Kaon frowned. “It sounds too easy.”

Vos, who Tarn hadn’t noticed in the pilot’s quarters until now, let off a flurry of beeps and squeaks in agreement. -That femme’s dangerous, Captain! I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her!- He paused to reprocess that statement, then amended it. -Or as far as I could throw Tesarus, I guess…-

“Sure, make fun of me for being the big one,” Tesarus mumbled, though he was too relaxed under Kaon’s touch to sound truly offended.

-You know what I mean- Vos insisted. -She could be setting us up. It could be a trap of some kind. Or she could be plotting to kill all of us before we get there! Do the DJD’s job for them!-

“Her, deactivate us?” Tarn inquired, tilting his head to one side. “Oh Vos, you have an imagination, but don’t let it get carried away. Nickel is a minibot and a medic, hardly a warrior.”

“That may be,” Kaon replied, “but we all saw her when she came online. She may look cute, but harboring her is like trying to shelter a feral electrocat. And you know what they say about medics – they know just where to hit you to cause the most damage or pain.”

Tarn shook his head. “This war has turned us all paranoid, hasn’t it?” He reached out to pat Vos’ shoulder. “Look at the facts. We have not injured her, only inconvenienced her. And we did save her life. Given those facts, I see no reason why she would want to betray us to the Decepticon Justice Division. And if worse comes to worse… well, we still have a head start on her comrades. We should have enough time to outrun them.”

“Should,” Tesarus repeated. “That’s a really big ‘should’ to bank on, sir.”

“What other options do we have?” Tarn inquired. “What do you recommend, Tesarus? That we kill her?”

Tesarus shuddered, and Vos and Kaon stared at Tarn as if he had just spoke blasphemy. Tarn simply nodded, taking their reactions as a negative answer. The five of them were pacifists, and the thought of harming any being on purpose was unthinkable. Even acting in self-defense was done with greatest reluctance.

-So let’s say you’re right, Captain- chirped Vos, jumping up to sit on Tarn’s knee. -Let’s say we drop Nickel off and get away safely. What next? What do we do here?-

Here Tarn hesitated. Could he really admit to his team that he had no plan beyond making sure Nickel found her way safely back to her comrades? They had been through so much in such a short time, and he had no desire to inflict more suffering on them. And though finding out the truth about the state of the war in this universe – and the corruption of the Decepticons – had dashed his original plans, he had to instill some kind of hope in his team. They had to keep going, they couldn’t give up now… and if that meant he had to lie to them, then so be it.

“I have a plan,” he assured them. “But I want to see Nickel on her way before I reveal it to anyone else. I trust all of you completely, but all the same, I don’t want to risk her overhearing us and reporting our destination to the DJD. I will fill you in on the details once she’s gone.”

Vos nodded. -Smart thinking, Captain. Should never have doubted you, huh?-

Kaon just gave Tarn a long look, as if he sensed their captain wasn’t being entirely honest with them. But he didn’t press the issue and simply returned to massaging Tesarus’ neck struts. “Does Nickel know where the closest inhabited world is? Aside from the one we just left, of course.”

“Worlorn, a mining planet on the Galactic Fringe,” Tarn replied. “It’s about four days’ journey.” Four days for him to come up with a solid plan… one that would help the five of them find safety and a renewed purpose in this galaxy, or at least provide them sanctuary until they could get back to their home universe. He just hoped he could come up with something.

Perhaps, for all that she was a spitfire and obviously didn’t trust them, Nickel could help him come up with something. She was certainly a handy source of knowledge regarding this universe. At the very least, she must know who was in charge of the Autobots – for it stood to reason that if the Megatron of this universe was a tyrant, the Autobot leader must be a paragon of honor and virtue. He just hoped that was the case.

***

The guest quarters aboard the _Ember’s Hope_ might have been suitable for a normal-sized mechanism, but they were uncomfortably huge for Nickel. She had thought her room aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ had been large, but evidently the DHD (she still snickered a bit over the name) had decided guests deserved the biggest quarters possible. Her room seemed big enough to run laps in, and that left her with an itchy, restless feeling under her plating. 

At least this version of Tarn had been decent enough to leave a proper stepstool in her quarters, rather than the crate she’d had to make do with back on the _Tyranny._ And he had pointed out the datapads on the shelf by the berth, suggesting that she might find some of the volumes of their universe interesting. (He had particularly recommended the poetry of the Bard of Darkmount, and had just shrugged quizzically when she had burst into giggles – evidently every version of Tarn was a poetry fan.) 

Still, she couldn’t seem to distract herself with any of the reading material. She wanted to get back to the team she knew, not these soft and cowardly copies who didn’t even have the decency to wear proper Decepticon colors. She wasn’t used to Tarn being this fragged nice, or Vos actually leaving her alone when she demanded it, or the complete and utter lack of the Pet snapping at her heels or leaving puddles of fluids everywhere. And rather than being a welcome change from the abrasive, sadistic personalities of the DJD, they irritated her to no end.

Finally she simply flopped back on the oversized berth, staring up at the ceiling. Might as well just shut herself down and recharge for the four days it took to get to Worlorn. At least that way she could avoid these weird doppelgangers until then. She still didn’t trust them… and at any rate, it was too bizarre seeing these mechs who wore the faces of her comrades act so fragging… _nice._

 _Is “nice” really such a bad thing, though?_ part of her wondered. _Sure, it’s weird seeing Vos act adorable or Tarn be so helpful and undemanding, but is it really so bad? You could get used to this…_

She shoved that thought away. No. She was not going to trust these mechs, or let herself get accustomed to them. Soon enough she’d be reunited with her team, and these mechs would just be a hilarious memory. Soon enough, she’d have her comrades back, and while they were a bunch of sociopathic nutcases, they were HER nutcases, fraggit. They had saved her life, they had taken her in when most other mechs would have left her to deactivate and rust where she lay, and for that she owed them her loyalty.

And if that debt she owed to them meant that she had to give up her autonomy, joining with them in a sparkbond… then so be it. Though she was fragging well going to enjoy this unexpected delay from that fate while she could…

A horrible retching sound from the next room over broke into her reverie, and she grimaced. Was that their version of the Pet, then, leaving a “present” for her? If so, it had to be a mighty big Pet – that sound was far too loud to be produced by a sparkeating turbofox. And said creature wasn’t just horking up a wad of half-chewed wires. From the sound of it, it was violently emptying its fuel tanks on the floor.

“Oh, for the Necrobot’s sake,” she grumbled, pushing herself upright and kicking one wheeled pede against the wall. “Knock it off!”

Her response was a gagging moan and another sickening splash as more fuel hit the floor. 

“Ugh.” She climbed down from the berth and headed for the next room. Probably Kaon’s if those sounds were coming from the Pet. She guessed that if the DHD were the polar opposite of the DJD, their Pet would be something disgustingly cute and friendly, though obviously not in the best of health judging from the amount of fuel it was purging. If her guess turned out to be wrong… well, hopefully she’d at least be faster than the thing.

It wasn’t the Pet – it was Not-Helex. While the Helex she knew was a combination of violet, gold and a dark almost-navy blue with glowing violet highlights, this Helex bore armor in shades of red and orange and silver, with blue light piping and glowing blue optics. And though at first he looked to be a carbon copy of “her” Helex, when she looked closer she could see parts of his armor were shaped just a little differently – not enough to be glaringly obvious, but enough to set him apart if one knew what to look for. Possibly to accommodate for a different alt mode, she theorized… and she wondered if the others would have those subtle differences if she paid attention.

Not-Helex’s lower set of hands were clutched over his abdominal plates, while one of his larger arms braced against the wall to keep his balance and the other wiped at his mouth to try to scrub away lingering traces of fuel. He took several deep intakes, optics shuttered, as if waiting for the next round of nausea, but when another round of retching didn’t occur he seemed to relax. His optic shutters slid open, and he turned to face Nickel.

“Oh… hello.” He managed a thin smile. “You’re the new one, aren’t you? Sorry if I disturbed you.”

She nodded, gaze moving from the towering mech to the puddle of half-processed energon on the floor – though truthfully it looked more like a lake than a puddle. “Call me Nickel. None of this ‘my lady’ business your boss seems so fond of.”

Helex gave a weak laugh and straightened, keeping one small hand on his abdominal plate. “That’s just the Captain for ya. Polite to a fault sometimes. Sorry about the mess. Wasn’t expecting company.”

She frowned as she studied the puddle, and despite her distrust her medical programming kicked in. “Purging this much at once isn’t healthy. Especially since some of this looks mostly processed already. You get a bad batch of high-grade, or been hit in the fuel tanks lately?”

He returned the frown and backed up to sit down on his berth, every move slow and deliberate. “I’ve just been like this for awhile. Can barely transform or even stand up without feeling sick. But it’s not terribly painful, so I’ve just learned to live with it.”

Her optics flared, and with them her temper. “Learn to live with it? You’re an idiot! You don’t learn to live with a glitch like this! You get it fixed, you slag-headed half-clocked moron!”

He shrugged in response, seemingly unbothered by her insult. “We haven’t been able to slow down long enough to find a medic for a long time. I won’t endanger the whole team just to fix a minor issue.”

“This isn’t a minor issue,” she retorted, skirting around the puddle to stand beside the berth. “This could kill you! You aren’t holding onto your fuel long enough to process and make use of it, and that’ll practically starve you to death. And that’s not counting the damage it’ll do to your intake tubing or tank linings.”

His expression darkened at that, and she took an involuntary step back. But he didn’t seem angry… more morose and resigned than anything. “I know it’s bad, but… what can we do? Like I said, we’ve been on the run a long time, and there hasn’t exactly been time to stop and see a medic. And none of us are trained to fix other mechs. The closest we’ve got to a medic is Kaon, but he’s more about fixing misaligned struts and kinked wires than actual repairs.”

“A massage therapist, then.” Well, if Not-Tarn could have actual manners and empathy behind that mask of his, then she supposed Not-Kaon could be trained in massage instead of torture-by-electricity. “Hmm… well, you’ve got a medic here now. So let’s say you share your diagnostic with me and I’ll figure out what’s wrong with you.”

He stared at her, optics bright with disbelief. “R-really? You’d do that? I thought you didn’t like us! That you were, well… more like those others.”

She snorted and grabbed his leg, using it as a makeshift ladder to climb up onto the bunk. “Just because I work for them doesn’t mean I’m a sadist. And I’m a medic – even if you’re not MY Helex, I can’t just sit here and watch you purge your guts out. It’s my duty to fix broken mechs, whoever they might be.”

He hesitated, then held out his larger right arm, a panel near the wrist springing open to reveal a data port. “It’s just… hard to believe that someone who worked with THOSE bullies would be so… kind.”

“I ain’t kind,” she retorted, pulling a data cable from her own arm and connecting it to his port. “Just professional. And it irks my programming to see a mech in disrepair when I can do something about it.” Another reason, perhaps, why Tarn always insisted she stay on the ship while they went out on “jobs” – no sense having a mech around dedicated to fixing others when their job was to break targets and ensure they STAYED broken.

While she scanned his systems, searching for whatever glitch was ailing him, she tried making small talk. Best to keep a patient distracted while you worked on them, after all. Plus it would do her some good to learn a little about these mechs, just in case. She rather doubted their paths would cross again after Worlorn, but it couldn’t hurt anything.

“So Kaon’s a masseur, then,” she noted. “Let me guess – he turns into a massage chair, not an electric chair.”

“Your Kaon’s an electric chair?” Helex repeated. “How’s he handle that much voltage?”

“Not very well – it’s fried his optical sensors to nothing.”

“Ouch!” He winced and shuddered, almost shaking the data cable out before he stilled. “Sounds like he’s a bit of a masochist as well as a sadist! But yes… ours is a massage chair. He tends to the physical hurts of those we take care of as best he can. He’s not a medic, but he can often ease a mech’s pain until a trained medic can get there. And making a mech feel good can do a lot to help them recover from trauma of any sort.”

“What about you?” she asked. “I can tell you turn into something different than my Helex.”

“My specialty is cleaning,” he confessed. “I turn into a portable washrack. And you’d be surprised how much being clean or living in clean surroundings can improve someone’s mental state.” He smiled a little. “I cleaned you up when you first got here, though Vos helped a little. You were a mess, sorry to say.”

She continued to scroll through the data he offered, though she couldn’t help but smile a bit at what he told her. Not-Helex’s water matched to her Helex’s fire… it made an odd but fitting symmetry. “And Vos? What’s he do? Or is he another cleaner?”

“He’s our chronicler and historian… and something of a storyteller. Wherever we go, he collects information and research, helping us learn more about a city or colony’s past so we can better tailor our services to suit their needs, or so we know what not to do in order to avoid some sort of cultural blunder. He takes his job seriously, but he also likes to collect the more fanciful stories, and will often share them with whatever sparklings or younglings we come across. He has a soft spot for the little ones. Goes all to pieces when he finds one hurt, and will do whatever is in his power to help them.”

Of course, leave it to Not-Vos to be disgustingly adorable where hers was blasted creepy. “What’s he turn into?”

“An archivist’s computer. He thought it was a fitting alt mode – the better to store as many stories as possible, he told us.”

“Makes sense. What about the others? Tesarus and Tarn?”

“Tesarus is an energon chef – before the war he was famous throughout Cybertron for his specialty blends of energon and the different forms he could process it into. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried his oil truffles.” He smiled at the thought. “But once the war set in in earnest, he joined the DHD and dedicated himself to using his skills to help others – refining energon into purer forms that could revitalize an ailing mech’s systems, or even using it to create medicines or stimulants. He still indulges in culinary uses from time to time, though, mostly when he thinks mechs need a morale boost. Tarn, of course, is our leader… though before the war, he was a musician, famed throughout Cybertron for his golden vocalizer. It’s said that he could drive even the Mad Prime himself to tears through the power of his voice.”

“So not so different from the Tarn I know… except the Mad Prime bit.” She pressed her lip plates together as an abnormality in a vital bit of programming caught her attention. “Okay, favor, big guy. I’m going to upload a program, but I need you to drop your firewall for a second. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh… well… I suppose so. I trust you.”

 _You shouldn’t,_ she thought balefully as she felt his firewall go down. If all these goody-goody Decepticons were as blindly trusting as the DHD, no wonder they were losing their war. But then, she supposed he wasn’t entirely wrong to trust her. It went entirely against her programming to hurt a patient, even one as bizarre as a mirrored copy of one of her teammates.

“All right, hold still,” she ordered, and sent a data package across their connection.

“Wh-wha- what… oh…” His optics rebooted once, then again, and he shook his head and pressed one palm to his helm. “What did you do? Something… clicked into place, it felt like.”

She disengaged from his data port and tucked the cable away. “Whenever you last updated your firewall, it screwed up the programming that governed your equilibrium systems. So whenever you did something that entailed a lot of moving – transforming, standing up, even this ship taking off too fast – it played havoc with your sense of balance. That patch should have fixed it.” She climbed down off the berth. “Stand up. Let’s see if that worked.”

Helex nodded and began to slowly push himself to his feet.

“No, no, no, not like that! Do it all at once or not at all! We need to put this patch to the test, not be dainty about it.”

He tensed, shuttering his optics… then shot to his feet like a soldier standing at attention. He stood quietly a moment, obviously expecting the worst, but when nothing happened a delighted laugh escaped his vocalizer.

“It worked! Primus below, it worked!” He bent down and scooped Nickel up in his arms, squeezing her tightly. “Thank you… this is wonderful!”

“ARGH!” She slapped at his chestplate, flailing and squirming. “Leggo leggo leggo!”

“Oh, sorry.” He set her down hurriedly. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

She grumbled softly and brushed off her plating. “Just give a femme some warning before you pick ‘em up like that, all right? And let me know if you have any problems. But that should have done the trick.”

“I sure hope so.” He smiled gratefully down at her. “Thank you, Nickel… this means more to me than you can know.” His gaze moved to the energon spill on the floor, and his chuckle was more of embarrassment than humor now. “I suppose I should put my cleaning skills to use here. I should be taking care of messes, not making them.”

“I’ll leave you to that, then.”

“Thank you again!” he told her as she turned to leave. “If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask!”

She mumbled something noncommittal in reply and headed back for her room. Privately she thought that if all went well and they made it to Worlorn on schedule, this Helex wouldn’t need to make good on his offer. Though at the moment, she couldn’t decide if that was a bad thing or not.


	5. Chapter 5

Nickel had just managed to drift off into recharge when the berth rocked wildly beneath her, shuddering like a boat caught in the high seas. Only the fact that it was built for a much larger mechanism than her kept her from tumbling clear off the edge, and even then she had to dig her digits into the foam padding to stay on. The datapad she’d been perusing before nodding off skidded halfway across the room, then slewed back and forth across the floor as the room continued to buck and sway.

“What the flying frag?” she grumbled, tightening her grip on the berth pad. Was whoever was flying this thing that inept of a pilot? Or worse, had the _Peaceful Tyranny_ finally caught up to them and opened fire? That would be just her luck, vaporized by her team even as she was trying to reunite with them.

Finally the ship stilled, the rocking coming to such a sudden halt that one might have thought they’d imagined the sudden tremor. The ship’s intercom system buzzed on, and Tarn’s voice echoed over the speakers, at once authoritative and soothing.

_“It’s all right, everyone. The danger has passed. We simply skirted too close to an asteroid field and took a minor hit. We’re in no danger of destruction. I repeat, the danger has passed. You can relax now.”_

Despite all her instincts to try to shut it out, Tarn’s voice seemed to drain the tension from Nickel’s chassis. Her whirling CPU stilled, the electrical impulses shooting through her systems slowed, and the joints in her limbs and digits loosened. Her chassis obeyed his order to relax even as irritation bloomed in her spark. Even with the intercom system dampening its effects, Tarn’s voice retained its manipulative qualities, and even this mirrored version of her team’s leader saw nothing wrong with using that voice for his own ends.

_Oh, stow it,_ a voice in the back of her CPU nagged. _It’s not like he’s ordering you to cut your fuel lines and be happy about it. He’s just trying to keep his team from going into a panic._

She snorted and climbed down from the berth. Despite all this Tarn’s good intentions, she still seemed determined to see the worst in him. Still, she couldn’t quite believe that he and his team were as innocent and pure as they made themselves out to be. Every mech had skeletons and demons, and at least the DJD displayed said skeletons and demons openly instead of sealing them away in a closet somewhere.

There was no one in the corridor when she stepped out of the room, which was some comfort. She knew these mechs still didn’t trust her, and pacifists or not they would have been suspicious of her wandering the hall on her own. She kept a sharp optic out as she walked, ready to duck into the shadows should one of the DHD step out and spot her. 

The cockpit was her eventual goal… because while Not-Tarn might insist that everything was all right and there was no reason to panic, she wasn’t about to blindly trust him yet. And she, for one, would relax better knowing what was really going on.

The doors to the ship’s cockpit stood open, and she positioned herself just outside them, where she could hear what was going on without being seen. Two voices drifted toward her – the clipped tenor of Kaon and the rich, almost musical baritone of Tarn.

“…couldn’t have been more than a glancing blow.” She only caught the end of Tarn’s sentence.

“This isn’t a war cruiser,” Kaon replied. “We haven’t the armor to sustain much more than a scrape. Even a glancing blow can do significant damage… just as this one did.”

A baleful silence. Then Tarn continued. “What damages, then?”

“Not as bad as it could have been,” Kaon admitted, “but bad enough. No hull breaches, some shield damage…” 

“And?” Tarn pressed as Kaon’s voice trailed off. “There’s more you want to say.”

Kaon’s vents hissed in a sigh. “Our port thrusters are gone.”

“Damaged?”

“No, sir… gone. Obliterated. Damage we could possibly fix or at least jury-rig, but that asteroid impact as good as scrapped them.”

Nickel’s spark plummeted into her fuel tanks at that. This ship was good as junked now – without two good stabilizers, the [i]Ember’s Hope[/i] had no way to change its course. Unless they were already on a straight path toward Worlorn – and she highly doubted that, seeing as there were a couple black holes between Bast and Worlorn – they would never reach the Fringe world now. 

“Is there no hope of even a partial repair?” Tarn asked, a note of desperation in his voice. “Or at the very least switching one of the starboard thrusters over to compensate?”

“Captain… there’s nothing we can do,” Kaon replied. “The only way to put us back on course is to replace the thruster, and we have no spare parts to replace it. Our other option is to send out a distress beacon and wait for help, but…”

Neither mech had to voice it for Nickel to know what they were talking about. A distress beacon would be like slitting a fuel line while in the midst of a pack of energy-piranhas. It would attract no help – only the attentions of bounty hunters, scavengers, or even the DJD. That last option might benefit her, but given that it would mean certain doom for her accidental captors, they wouldn’t be willing to risk it.

“Primus below,” Tarn murmured at last. “We must be cursed.”

“Don’t talk like that, Captain. It’s horrible bad luck, but not a curse.”

“Not bad luck… not luck at all. This is my fault.” A chair groaned in protest as Tarn settled his bulk into it. “I should never have brought us here. The rift between universes wasn’t salvation at all, but a trap.”

“Sir, you had no way of knowing-”

“I knew we were jumping into an unknown situation. I knew that whatever we faced on the other side of the rift would have its own dangers, perhaps worse than what we were already fleeing. I decided to take the risk anyhow… and now I see it was the wrong choice.” Tarn sighed deeply. “What do we do now?”

“I wish I could advise you, Captain,” Kaon said softly. “But truthfully, I don’t know.” A pause. “What about the little medic?”

Nickel clenched her jaw. Great, they were going to consider her expendable and jettison her out the airlock or worse to save their own plating. Maybe she should find and activate that emergency beacon herself, then go into hiding. At least that would ensure she was found…

“What about her?” asked Tarn.

“Perhaps… perhaps she can help us?”

She rebooted her optics. Well, she hadn’t been expecting that.

Tarn gave a rueful laugh. “She doesn’t trust us, Kaon. And besides, we as good as kidnapped her. She has no reason to want to help us… and every reason to see us fall into the hands of the _Justice_ Division.” He used the word _justice_ as if it were something foul and despicable. “No, we won’t trouble her with our problems. We will simply have to explain that we won’t make it to Worlorn, and hope she accepts our apology. From there… from there, I suppose we simply batten the hatches and hope for a rescue.”

“At least consider asking for her advice. It’s possible that she knows at least a little about a damaged starcraft and can attempt a patch job. Or that she knows some other refuge in this area that we can take advantage of. She’s not ember-less, Captain. Caustic and irritable, perhaps, but not ember-less.”

“No, Kaon… we have inflicted enough suffering on her. I won’t trouble her further.” He sighed deeply. “Kill the engines and any systems not necessary to keep us functioning comfortably. I’ll check on the others and ensure they haven’t taken harm from this accident.”

“Yes, sir. And Captain… don’t give up hope yet. We’ll find our way. I promise.”

Nickel drew away and hurried back to her quarters before Tarn could leave the cockpit. Stranded… she was stranded in deep space with a bunch of warped copies of her team, with no way to get back to Bast or forward to Worlorn. Unless this ship came with some kind of escape pods, which was entirely possible given that this team was made up of pacifists… but she rather doubted they’d let her poke around the ship and find said pods. She was stuck here, and for slag knew how long.

The one silver lining to this lead-colored cloud was that at least Not-Tarn had the good grace to be properly regretful about all this. He had seemed genuinely sorry that their attempt to rescue her had inconvenienced her. His concern didn’t exactly make everything better, but it did help mollify her temper a bit.

And given that this Tarn actually worried about the welfare of his team, and had so much more to worry about in this new and strange universe than simply her convenience… the fact that he had any sympathy to spare for her was surprisingly spark-warming. Or ember-warming… they seemed to call sparks embers where they came from. Weird, but what about this situation wasn’t?

She climbed back up onto her berth and flopped onto her back, sighing deeply. Well, fraggit, these copies of her team had at least tried. They could have easily just left her to rust in the muck, or pulled her out and left her in an alley for the scavengers to strip, or dumped her aft into deep space at the first sign of trouble. But they had gone out of their way to help her, to make sure she was reunited with the Decepticon Justice Division, even though said Justice Division terrified them out of their wits… and even though their efforts had cost them a valuable opportunity at finding sanctuary.

Something twinged in her fuel tanks, and it took her a moment to recognize it as a stab of guilt. Guilt was an emotion she’d jaded herself against ever since signing up as the DJD’s medic – after all, what they did was for the good of the Decepticons, so why feel bad for her admittedly miniscule role in their actions. Besides, any show of remorse on her part would have been seized on as a weakness… and Tarn did not tolerate weakness, not in his team or even in his medic.

But it was one thing to deny any guilt when the DJD went out and hurt someone… and quite another to try to deny it when good mechs had put themselves in danger for no benefit of their own, simply to try to help her. They were in trouble thanks to her, and that left her feeling as if she’d taken a punch to the abdomen. 

_Well, what are you going to do about it?_ she thought acidly. _Just lie here and mope? That’s not going to do you or them any good. You and these DHD can sit and wallow in your own self-pity and remorse all you want, but it doesn’t change a thing. Not unless you get off your afts and actually DO something about this whole mess._

She scowled and pushed herself upright. That nagging voice in her CPU – the last remnants of her conscience, the old Kaon might have joked – had a point, but that still left the question of what exactly she could do. Despite Not-Kaon’s suggestion, she knew squat about repairing damaged spacecraft. Despite what a lot of organics liked to think, Cybertronian medical science and technological science were two entirely different branches of study, and while some medics could double as repair techs and vice versa, those were few and far between. Expecting a medic to know how to patch up a starship thruster was like expecting a tree surgeon to know how to perform a kidney transplant.

Well, she might not be able to repair the _Ember’s Hope_ … but she knew a few tricks. How to make the most of the ship’s life-support systems, for one thing, to ensure the stay aboard this wreck was as comfortable as they could get it for as long as possible. Not to mention secret communications channels where they could signal for help – channels that the DJD checked with regularity, of course, but she also knew how to be careful enough to not attract her Tarn’s attention with an SOS call. 

Her main strength lay in her ability to repair other mechanisms, however… and perhaps that was her best option for helping the others. She’d already lent a servo to Helex. Perhaps the others could benefit as well. It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

***

Vos looked up from the datapad he’d been scrolling through and gave the little medic his best incredulous look. His answer was in Binary, a language she didn’t know, but it didn’t take knowing the vernacular to decipher his chirp as “you want to WHAT?”

“I just want to look at your hand,” Nickel explained. “Make sure it’s patched up okay and you’re not going to catch a rust infection or anything. Seeing as I’m the one that stabbed you, only fair that I should fix it, right?”

Vos looked down at his servo, still bound in a silvery sheet of flimsplast, then shrugged. His soft chirr seemed to say “it doesn’t hurt that much.”

“It might not bother you now, but it’s not going to get any better just sitting,” she pressed. “Just let me look at it, all right? Make sure you didn’t damage a joint or nick an important cable.”

Vos whined and dropped the datapad, cupping his wounded servo to his chest and shaking his head.

“Don’t be such a slagging sparkling about this,” Nickel huffed. “I’m just gonna fix it. I’m not going to stab your other hand or eat you or rip your fuel lines out with my dental plates. Just fix your hand. Do you trust me with that, or would you rather come back to me when your digits are rotting off?”

The slender archivist tilted his helm from side to side, as if seriously considering that question. Then, with a soft sigh of long-suffering, he extended his hand toward her.

“Finally,” she huffed, pulling a scalpel from her shoulder compartment and slicing off the bandage. “Took you long enough. Let’s have a look.”

The archivist held his hand still enough as Nickel cleaned up the deep puncture to his hand and sealed off the ripped wires and tubes, but the rest of his body shifted restlessly. He rocked back and forth, humming and chirping, clutching the datapad to his chest as if it were a child’s stuffed toy. Several times Nickel had to snap at him to hold still, and he would comply for a few seconds, only to start rocking and fidgeting again.

“Fraggit, do I have to call your Tarn in and have him sit on you?” she finally snapped.

Vos shrugged.

“Do you talk?” she demanded, softening her voice just a touch. “Even my Vos talked, though he liked his archaic languages.”

Vos gave a full-body shiver.

“Oh, you don’t like my Vos, do you?”

He shook his head.

“He’s a creepy little fragger, I admit. But he’s got his uses.” Probably not best to elaborate on those uses in front of an admitted pacifist, though. “So what’s up with your vocalizer anyhow?”

Vos tilted his head back and tapped at his neck strut.

“Broken?” Nickel frowned a bit as she applied a fresh patch to his hand. “Let me have a look at that. I might be able to tell you what’s wrong, or even rig a quick fix if we’re lucky.”

His optics flared brightly, and he burst into a flurry of eager chirps like a demented cyber-canary. 

“I’m gonna guess that’s a yes. Tip your head back.”

He obliged, and for a wonder he actually held still as she nudged aside cables and tubing to get at his vocalizer. How long had he been mute anyhow, she wondered. Long enough to be ecstatic for a chance at having his vocalizer repaired, obviously, but not long enough to have grown accustomed to speaking in Binary and lose his eagerness to have his voice returned…

She winced at the sight of his vocalizer, half-melted and black with char. “Oh, slag.”

Vos whined.

“No, you’re fine, I just got the wrong tool,” she lied, switching out a tool for a slightly smaller size to avoid drawing suspicion. “Let me see what I can do here… looks like you took a shot to the neck at some point.”

He tried to nod, stopped himself, and just gave a sad little coo.

“Lucky it didn’t blow your head off.” She carefully pried the plastic casing open and investigated the electronic guts of the component. A soft whistle escaped her fans as she sighed in relief. The casing had taken the brunt of the damage, while the chips and wiring looked mostly intact. One of the two vital wires had been fried beyond repair, but that was a simple enough fix. Just a snip here to remove the dead wire, a tweak there to reroute all power through the surviving wire…

“So how’d this happen anyhow?” she asked, soldering the last wire and snapping the casing closed.

Vos let out a series of beeps.

“No, no, not in Binary. I can’t understand you.”

“Oh, sorry,” he replied, his voice a slightly raspy tenor. Then he gave a high “eep!” of shock and clapped his hands over his mask, in the general vicinity of his mouth.

“Hey, don’t freak out. That’s just your voice.” She couldn’t help a smile. “I’m gonna guess it’s been awhile since you got to use it.”

“I can talk!” He pressed his digits to his neck strut, optics shining with emotion. “It’s been so long… oh Primus, Nickel, thank you! I take back all those nasty things I said about you earlier… oh, uh, you didn’t hear them. Still sorry… still take ‘em back… but thank you!”

“Just don’t hug me,” she ordered. “Ain’t a huggy type.”

Vos had extended his hands toward Nickel to do just that, but jerked them back. “Sorry. Wait, why am I saying sorry, I didn’t do anything yet… still sorry I almost did it, I guess. And uh, to answer your question, I took a shot in the neck from Perceptor when he tried to snipe our group. Pretty lucky that all I got out of it was a scorched vocalizer, I guess, though still, it hasn’t been fun not being able to talk to mechs who don’t know Binary… and well, Binary’s just not as expressive as actual words! But that’s all fixed now, thank you!”

“You already thanked me, you dork,” she chuckled, slapping his arm good-naturedly. “Now go on, you. Go surprise your teammates or something.”

He nodded and hurried out of the room, babbling eagerly to himself. It was as if he’d stored up his words over the vorns he’d been rendered silent, and said words would leak out of him continuously for the next several days like steam from a pressure valve. So long as it was just his teammates he was annoying with his newfound chatterbox tendencies, she was fine with that.

Idly she tossed a pick in the air and caught it again. If Helex and Vos had suffered bad glitches or damages, then she could probably assume that Tarn, Kaon, and Tesarus were in the same state. Helex had explained that none of them were medics, and they’d probably been living in various states of disrepair for who knew how long. Who knew what kind of malfunctions the others were hiding… and from what little she knew of this Tarn, it would probably be like him to hide his glitches and damages from the others, refusing to show he was damaged or ill until it was too late to do anything about it.

Well, perhaps this would be how she repaid the DHD for saving her life – by ensuring they were all repaired to the best of her ability. Goodness knew she had the time for that…


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the staunch anti-organic stance of most Decepticons, Tarn harbored no special ill will toward the creatures. Yes, they were a disgusting plague upon the universe, but in his CPU they were more annoyances than actively despicable. They were like cyberbugs – irritating, but only worth eradicating if they were immediately pestering you instead of minding their own business. Even technorganics, which most Decepticons (and even most members of the DJD) hated for being a bastard mix of mechanical and organic, weren’t worth his attention.

Perhaps that was the only reason why he hadn’t ordered his team to storm the Rustbucket Inn and go all out on its bartender. The creature might be an abomination, but at least he was being cooperative. If he chose to be contrary, however… well, they’d never practiced their arts on a technorganic before, but there was always a first time.

“We don’t serve your kind here,” the bartender growled the moment Tarn pushed through the doors of the Rustbucket. The few patrons he had at this hour scattered like roaches from light, but the technorganic didn’t so much as look up from where he was scrubbing oil stains out of a glass. His chassis gleamed black and silver in the lights of the bar, but his slit-pupiled yellow eyes and the thatch of glossy black hair that had been artfully combed in a style fashionable among humanoids betrayed his nature as a cyborg.

“We won’t disgrace you by asking for service,” Tarn assured him, striding up to the bar. “We seek information, not drinks.”

The bartender didn’t so much as glance at Tarn as he set one glass aside and picked up another. “If it’s about finding someone on your List, can’t help you there. Haven’t seen so much as the corner of a Decepticon sigil for over a cycle here.” 

His voice was blunt, his manner casual… but Tarn’s optics narrowed as he caught the slightest tremor in his hands. Despite all his bluff and bluster, his presence unnerved the technorganic. Good… unnerved was good. He wanted his information source to be just frightened enough to not withhold information, but not so terrified that he’d babble anything just to get the DJD out of his bar.

“We’ve already found our target on this world,” he explained. “I’m seeking another mech, however. A wayward Decepticon who needs reunited with their team.”

The technorganic snorted and set the other glass atop a growing pyramid of glasses. “Member of your team, you mean? He was in here last night. He stuck his pointy mask in, nosed around a bit, and left.”

Tarn frowned behind his mask. “Vos was here?” That couldn’t be right. Vos had been with his team all last night, engaging in his own twisted style of play with Obsidian. Unless he’d suddenly developed an Insecticon-like ability to clone himself, though he was certain he or Nickel would have discovered such a quirk by now.

“Whatever you call the skinny one.” He made a show of wiping the already-spotless bar down with his rag. “Funny, though, always thought he was purple instead of red. Wasn’t aware you lot were getting makeovers.”

His frown deepened, and he drummed his fingers against the counter as he mulled that over. “Was Vos the only one you saw?”

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry.”

Tarn leaned in close, looming over the technorganic. “Think harder.”

The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but his hand shook as he placed another glass on the stack. “Not myself… but some of my customers said something about seeing Kaon and Tesarus out in the streets, asking odd questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

“None of them were dumb enough to get close enough to hear.” He shrugged and reached for another glass, but it slipped from his shaking hand and shattered on the floor. He hissed a curse and stooped down to scrape up the shards.

Tarn left the cyborg to his work and strode out without so much as a thanks. Odd, that mechs and beings here would report seeing his team wandering the city during their session with the runaway general. It was impossible – everyone but Nickel had been within sight of him the entire time, and even lost in the thrall of a session, he would have noticed if one or more of them had slipped away. And the fact that the Vos the bartender had laid eyes on had worn different colors was especially telling…

“Got nothing outta this one, boss!”

Tarn looked up, snapped out of his thoughts by Tesarus’ words… and groaned. “Put her down, Tesarus. She’s not on the List.”

“She knows something, I know it!” the mech retorted, glowering as best as his X-visor would allow. He gripped the squealing femme by her legs in his pincers, dangling her over the spinning blades of his internal shredder, and occasionally he would let his hold slip, letting her fall nearly into the churning mass of jagged metal before catching her.

“Put her down,” Tarn ordered. “On the _ground,_ not in your shredder. She’s not on the List, and I’m not in the mood to clean up after you today.”

Tesarus huffed and dropped the femme onto the sidewalk, watching her scramble to her pedes and bolt away. “Ruin my fun, why doncha? She coulda known something useful.”

“I’ve already uncovered useful information,” Tarn replied.

“Oh, you found her?” asked Kaon. “Or at least some evidence of where she is?”

“Not Nickel,” he replied, “but something interesting nonetheless.” A smile played across his lips beneath the mask. “We have imposters. There are at least three mechs on this planet who have taken to impersonating us.”

“Oh-ho-ho-ho!” Helex cackled. “Some mechs have got death wishes! They’re on the List for sure!”

Kaon scowled. “It will be a trick to find them if we don’t know their names.”

“Names?” Tesarus repeated. “Whadda we need names for? How hard is it gonna be if they look just like us?”

“According to one witness, they got our colors wrong, but I am in agreement with Tesarus,” Tarn noted. “For once.” He ignored the mech’s scowl and went on. “Finding Nickel is still our first priority, but finding these imitations of the Decepticon Justice Division is a close second. We cannot let them undermine our mission… and we will make them suffer dearly for taking our names and sullying them.”

Helex grinned and cracked the knuckle joints of both sets of hands. “Do we each get to play with our own imposters? That’d be fitting justice right there.”

“I think that can certainly be arranged,” Tarn told him, then held up his hand as Vos scurried up to join them. The skinny mech was spattered with energon and oil and other unsavory fluids, some clearly organic in nature, and Tarn had half a mind to tell him not to even think about setting foot on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ until he’d hosed himself off. With Nickel not around to clean up after them, it seemed it fell on him to make sure his team took better care of their own personal hygiene and maintenance. Disgraceful… and all the more reason to find her quickly.

-Got some juicy news out of an old technorganic hobo- Vos cackled.

“Okay, how come he gets to play with his witness and I don’t?” Tesarus demanded. 

-Maybe because I didn’t let myself get caught at it- Vos gloated.

“Enough,” Tarn ordered. “Vos, report. What news?”

-The technorganic says he saw a street sweeper toss a minibot out into the swamp- Vos replied eagerly. -From his description, it’s Nickel! But he says he saw me swim out there and yank her out. Couldn’t have been me, though, he must be messed up in the head.-

“Slagging Primus!” Tesarus snarled. “Our fraggin’ impersonators have her!”

-We have impersonators? Sweet! I call dibs!-

“You do NOT get to play with all five of them, you creep!” 

-Oh come on, I don’t get enough fun as it is, with you and Helex hogging all the…-

“Enough out of both of you. Anything else, Vos? Did he see which way they went?”

-Didn’t want to say at first, but I convinced him.- Vos gave a self-satisfied snicker at that. -Apparently YOU came along and plucked them both out of the swamp, boss. Then we took off in a ship he’d never seen before. That’s all he said. Or rather, all he said that was useful. He did a lot of screaming and swearing and calling out for some deity to save him, but figured you wouldn’t want to hear all that.-

Tarn nodded, feeling the triumph of finally knowing what had happened to their medic merge with an unholy rage that burned in the depths of his fuel tank and engulfed his spark. “So… we not only have imposters, but they’ve abducted Nickel. They will pay doubly for this outrage.”

Helex and Tesarus chuckled eagerly, and even Kaon gave a dark smile. “I think,” the blind mech said in a pleasant tone, “that this will be one of the most enjoyable hunts we’ve had in a long time.”

Tarn nodded, and the fire of rage cooled to a smoldering burn of anticipation. He was going to enjoy tracking down his imposter… and slowly and carefully teaching him that he had chosen the wrong mech to insult and betray. This would be utterly delicious.

***

“I’m not going in there.”

“Oh, come on, of course you are!”

“I’m not risking it! I don’t trust her.”

“Come on, Kaon!” Vos draped himself over the masseur’s shoulders. “She’s not all bad. She fixed my hand and my vocalizer and she took care of Helex’s glitch. Tarn and Tesarus trust her enough to let her work on them. What’s your problem?”

The two smallest members of the DHD sat outside a room that Nickel had appropriated as a makeshift medical center, waiting their turn for repairs and tune-ups. From inside the chamber they could hear Nickel barking orders to Tesarus as she worked on him, as well as the occasional expletive as she came across some damage or corrosion and Tesarus replying by begging her to keep the swearing down. Judging by how often she cut loose with the foul language, Tesarus was in worse shape than any of them realized.

“Maybe now he’ll listen to me about cleaning himself out more often,” Helex noted. “It’s not healthy to let dirt and contaminants sit that long, especially in your internals.”

“His alt mode’s a freaking oven,” Vos pointed out. “It’s a constant job to keep him clean.”

“Which is all the more reason for him to clean himself frequently,” Helex pointed out. “It’ll prevent the buildup that leads to corrosion and other problems…”

“Blah blah blah, don’t be a slob or you’ll die,” Vos replied, flapping his hands, though his tone was one of good-natured teasing rather than outright mocking. “If only every problem could be solved by washing it, huh?”

Kaon gave Vos a tolerant look. “I don’t remember you being this snarky when you were mute.”

“Hey, I snark because I love you guys.” Vos rested his chin on Kaon’s shoulder and leaned his head against his.

The doors to the temporary repair bay opened, and Tarn’s mask poked out. “Helex, could you step in here a moment, please? Nickel’s cleaning out Tesarus’ internals and it’s proving to be a bigger job than we anticipated.” From behind him came a string of dirty words from the tiny medic and a quiet plea from Tesarus to please clean up her language.

Helex sighed and pushed himself to his feet, allowing himself a smile at being able to accomplish that feat without making himself sick. “Be good, you two. Don’t pester Kaon too much, Vos.”

Vos waited until the doors had shut behind Helex before reaching up to poke lightly at the pilot and masseur’s cheek. “Excited to get your sight returned to normal? I bet it’ll be good to see in color again an’ not have your optics fritzing out four times a day, huh?”

“It will be,” Kaon admitted. “I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to that. It’s just the process of getting there that’s a little unsettling.”

“She’s not scary, I promise,” Vos assured him. “Yeah, she’s kinda abrasive and her vocalizer’s fouler than a den of Dinobots, but she’s good at what she does. And gentle. I barely felt a thing.”

“Still… she’s connected to them. And she wouldn’t be the first medic to use her expertise to torture and mutilate patients. Remember Ratchet?”

Vos nodded, giving a full-body shudder. “Yeah, but she’s not Ratchet. Just try to relax, okay?”

“Easier said than done.”

The archivist hugged Kaon about the shoulders. “If you need help relaxing… maybe I can provide it.” He chuckled and let his slender fingers slip into a gap in Kaon’s chest armor. “If you know what I mean.”

Kaon arched an optic ridge. “Is now really the time to be suggesting that?”

Vos shrugged. “No one’s gonna complain.”

“Only because they know they’ll be next,” Kaon replied. But he turned his head and kissed Vos lightly on the side of his mask anyhow. “I’ll let you ‘relax’ me if you take off the mask.”

Vos huffed softly. “Okay, fine… only because I love you, dork.” He nuzzled against Kaon’s throat. “Your room or mine? Tarn doesn’t like it when we ‘face out in the hallways.”

“I’m in agreement with him, actually.” Kaon gathered the slender archivist up in his arms. “We may be more relaxed in this than many mechs, but still, some decorum can be shown. My room.”

“Never took you to be a prude,” Vos teased as Kaon shifted him to one arm and palmed open the door. He chirred softly as the masseur laid him out on the berth, his expert hands caressing his chassis, finding every sensitive spot and tactile node. He didn’t resist as those clever hands moved to his mask, found the catches, and released them.

***

“Finally,” Nickel huffed, clambering out of Tesarus’ chest cavity – not a shredder like her own Tesarus’, but an honest-to-Primus oven. “Clean yourself out a little more often, fraggit. You’re lucky none of that corrosion hit your internals.”

Tesarus shut his chest cavity. “Maybe we can make it a deal? I clean out a little more often if you clean up your language some?”

She snorted. “The you from the DJD has a much fouler mouth than I do.”

“Well, I’m not him,” he pointed out calmly, and pushed himself upright. “I just don’t like hearing that kind of talk all the time.”

“Tess, please,” Helex pleaded, patting his shoulder. “Is it really worth fussing about? This is your health we’re talking about! And she’s just proven that cleanliness IS part of health!”

“Yes, but still!” Tesarus protested, throwing his hands up.

Nickel sighed. “All right, fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll watch my language around you if you promise to hit the washracks once a day. But you have to be thorough. Don’t just stand under the spray for a few astroseconds and call it good – clean up EVERYWHERE! We’re not doing THIS again!”

Tesarus smiled in relief. “It’s a bargain.” He extended a massive hand, and Nickel grasped his finger and shook it to seal the deal.

“Now get out of here,” she told him, patting the massive hand. “Send Kaon in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He slapped Helex on the back, and the two bulky mechs strode out.

Tarn watched his teammates go with a benevolent look. “Thank you, Nickel. You can’t know how much this means to me. To see my crew functioning optimally, pain-free and glitch-free. It’s been far too long since we’ve had a moment to see a proper medic.”

She rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “Eh… you guys got yourselves in trouble trying to help me. After that… this is the least I can do in return.”

Tarn tilted his head curiously, and belatedly Nickel realized she’d just let slip that she’d overheard his conversation with Kaon earlier. But the mech let it slide. “We’ve made it our mission to help those in need. Just because we’re in an unfamiliar universe doesn’t mean we’re obligated to stop. If we’re to meet our end in service to another… then so be it.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.” She made for the edge of the table and clambered down. “Your ship may be shot, but there’s ways for you to limp it along. Systems you can shut down to conserve power until help comes. And I know some secure channels you can send an SOS on.”

His optics flickered with hope, but he kept his tone neutral as he replied. “No offense, m’lady – I mean Nickel – but how are we to know that your… friends… won’t pick up the SOS signal and find us?”

Nickel couldn’t suppress a smirk. Well, as goody-goody as these mechs could be, at least they weren’t totally naïve. Perhaps it should have annoyed her that after all she was doing for the DHD, they still didn’t trust her, but at the same time it showed that Tarn, at least, had a CPU as well as a spark/ember/whatever they called it, and wasn’t just going to blindly follow her into the clutches of her Tarn and his gang of psychopaths.

“You don’t send it as a blatant SOS signal,” she replied. “You code it. There are messages you can send out that sound perfectly mundane to the casual listener, but an experienced spacer will recognize them as a call for help. My Tarn knows most of them, but not all… and I happen to know a few that I haven’t shared with him yet.”

The tension seemed to run out of Tarn’s chassis at that. “That would be wonderful. If you could share this information with us, we’d be in your debt. Thank you.”

“You owe me nothing,” she insisted. “I don’t want to be stranded in deep space any more than you guys do. This is me being selfish, pure and simple.”

Tarn tilted his mask to one side. “I think you’re a lot less selfish than you want to admit to anyone… or yourself.” And with that cryptic remark, he shooed her toward the door. “I suggest you get cleaned up before you see to Kaon. Most of Tesarus’ dirt ended up on your chassis, I’m afraid.”

“Tell Mr. EZ-Bake that if I have to do that again, I’ll rebuild him into a toaster,” she huffed, wiping a smear of grease off her arm. “I’ll be back in a klick.”

“Take as long as you need,” he advised. “You can see Helex for a thorough cleaning, or if you’d rather not there’s a washrack at the end of the corridor.”

Nickel knew which option she would rather take, and made a beeline for the washrack as soon as she left the temporary repair bay. As eager as Helex surely would have been to offer his services, she would rather clean herself up than let him do the job. Yes, he’d done a perfectly good job the last time, but then, she’d been unconscious for it. And if she had a choice, she’d rather do it herself instead of relying on another.

_You know they just want to help you,_ her CPU nagged. _And it’s not like they even expect anything in return. It’s just their job to be nice, just like it’s your team’s job to be sick bastards. Why not accept a little charity from them for once?_

She shook her head and continued on, shunting that voice to the back of her CPU. In her experience, no one ever offered anything good without expecting something in return. No… she wasn’t going to let herself be indebted to these mechs. They would probably exact a price of some kind, something she wasn’t willing to give…

A guttural sound made her pause, and her optics flashed toward a door that had been carelessly left half-open. That sounded like Kaon… had he worried himself sick or something? Though that hadn’t been a sound of pain or illness – and she had heard enough of those in her lifetime, more than she cared to think about. This sounded more like a moan of pleasure…

She shouldn’t have looked… but curiosity got the best of her. She crept up to the door and peered through the gap, squinting and sharpening the focus of her optics to better make out what was happening in the dim light.

Her first instinct was to rush into the room, scalpel drawn. Vos was atop Kaon, gripping the taller mech’s shoulders, moving against him in a manner she recognized all too well. Kaon groaned and arched beneath him, moaning and whimpering, but Vos leaned more of his weight on the mech’s shoulders, pinning him, his vents huffing and whistling as he thrust faster and harder. Grunts and panting and scraping metal filled the room, drifting out into the corridor, and the dim light of the room just made the blaze of arousal in Vos’ optics even more obvious – Kaon’s optics had gone dark, though whether that was his optical glitch or something else she had no idea.

Her lip curled back over her dentals in disgust. Of course… even in this incarnation, Vos was a sadistic rapist, not even above assaulting his own teammates to get his kicks. Part of her felt a startling sense of relief at that – she’d been waiting for the ugly secrets these mechs had been hiding to surface, and now she’d seen proof that they weren’t the perfect pacifists they made themselves out to be. The rest of her felt a loathsome hatred building in her chassis, hatred toward Vos for what he was doing to Kaon, for using a teammate as nothing more than a toy for his own pleasure…

“R-right there,” Kaon panted, bucking beneath the archivist. “S-so close… don’t stop!”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Vos groaned, gripping Kaon’s legs beneath the knees and pushing them forward until they nearly touched the mech’s chest. “O-o-over… overload… for me… Kaon!”

Nickel had been prepared to charge into the room and plant her blade in Vos’ chassis somewhere, buying Kaon time to throw him off and escape… but that burst of conversation made her pause. As she hesitated, flooded with sudden uncertainty, twin cries of ecstasy filled the room, too distorted to make out names or words but filled with ultimate pleasure nonetheless. In the shadows she could make out Vos writhing atop Kaon, moving against him in an effort to prolong the moment… then collapsing atop him with a tired wheeze.

“Mm… tire yourself out?” Kaon murmured softly, and in the darkness Nickel saw him raise a hand to cup Vos’ face – his _unmasked_ face, she realized.

“Hardly,” Vos replied, giving a chittering giggle and leaning down to kiss Kaon – wait, he had a mouth under that mask? “I could go again… unless you’re too fragged out.”

“Never dear.” A sudden roll, and Kaon was straddling the slender archivist. “Though I top this time.”

Nickel decided it best not to stick around for the second session, and bolted for the washracks. The entire time, though, her CPU whirled with confusion. 

***

“It’s not funny, you fragger!”

Tarn stifled his laughter as best he could, though it was a difficult task. “Oh, Nickel, I’m sorry… but it’s rather adorable to me.”

“What’s adorable?” she retorted. “That your teammates are going at it like petrorabbits? And with the door open for the entire slagging universe to see?”

“That you’re completely nonplussed by your Justice Divisions’ macabre sense of entertainment, but a pleasant interfacing session is enough to disturb you.”

“Oh, shut up.” Nickel hunched over the cube of energon Tesarus had fetched her, glowering into the glowing fluid as if hoping to curdle it with her gaze. 

Tarn simply waited for her to continue talking, lifting his mask just enough to sip at his own fuel. As soon as Nickel had returned from the washracks she had set to work on Kaon’s optics, though she refused to speak to the mech any more than necessary and had kept her orders terse and clipped. Tarn, worried that her apparent anger would goad her into making a dangerous mistake, had tried to get her to talk about what was bothering her, but she had told him in no uncertain terms just where he could stick his good intentions. He’d held his peace while she finished the repairs to Kaon’s optics, but informed her that before she could work on him he wanted a drink and a word with her in the common room.

“I take it your universe isn’t as open about interfacing and pleasure as ours,” Tarn said at last.

She shrugged. “Open enough, but aside from Vos the DJD have got all the libido of a grease rag. Sure, they’ll frag a mech, but they use it more as just another instrument of torture than as any way of gratifying themselves.”

Tarn felt his internals clench at that, and was instantly thankful that he’d only sipped at his fuel. He supposed he should have expected that, but still, knowing for a fact that their sinister doppelgangers used an act that should have been pleasant and intimate as a means to hurt and brutalize sickened him. 

“What about Vos?” he asked.

She snorted. “He gets frisky, yeah… but his tastes are so perverted they’d make an entire Dead-Sector brothel look like prudes.”

“Ah… that doesn’t exactly give me a frame of reference. We have no Dead Sector and our team doesn’t exactly frequent brothels.”

She gave him a hard look. “Let’s just say that the only perversion I haven’t seen him indulge in is necrophilia, and I think that one only turns him off because he prefers his partners to squeal and fight instead of just lay there while he frags them.”

His tanks clenched again, and he nearly gagged. Only when he was sure he wouldn’t lose what little fuel he’d taken did he speak again. “I can assure you that our Vos is nothing like that. None of us are. Yes, we interface, but we see it as a means of giving comfort.”

She raised an optic ridge. “So your services include literally ‘servicing’ other mechs?”

“We are not prostitutes,” he informed her, letting the slightest edge creep into his voice. “But there are times when a mech is hurting deeply – not from physical wounds, but from emotional trauma. And sometimes, the best way to ease that hurt is through physical release. We never do it without express consent, of course.”

“Ah… well, that’s something I never learned in medic training.” She took a deep pull from her cube. “So Vos was just trying to calm Kaon down about his procedure, not take advantage of a mech in distress.”

“Precisely. We have all comforted one another in that way at some point. Even I have taken other mechs to my berth from time to time – my teammates, patients and clients, Decepticons in distress. You would be surprised how much a loving, gentle interface session can revive a mech’s spirits.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He chuckled. “You don’t necessarily need to,” he pointed out. “Any of our berths are open to you should you desire it. And yes, we’re fully aware of the size difference – we all know ways to pleasure a smaller mech without damaging them.”

Immediately he realized he’d said too much. Her expression, which had finally opened up to some degree, closed up again like a box snapping shut. Optics cold, she pushed her half-full cube away and slid down from her chair.

“I’m going to my room.”

“Nickel, wait! I’m sorry…” 

She flashed him a gesture that he assumed meant something inflammatory in this universe and stormed out, leaving Tarn to mentally kick himself as he finished his own energon in silence. 

_She hasn’t just had a difficult life,_ he realized. _She’s suffered trauma, perhaps even abuse. Perhaps even assault… and I’d wager this ship and everything on it that she was abused and assaulted by her own teammates. By Vos if by no one else._

Small wonder she had seen Vos and Kaon’s lovemaking as a rape at first… and small wonder she found it unbelievable that the DHD could use interfacing as a means of comforting and aiding others, rather than torture and manipulation. Their tiny guest was carrying around a lot of pain, and though she hid it by baring claws and snarling whenever someone tried to get close, he knew better.

_And it’s our job to ease the pain of others. So… though she insists we owe her nothing, we will do our best to ease her hurts, even if they’re old scars by this point. I just hope she lets us get close enough to do so._


	7. Chapter 7

Days passed.

The _Ember’s Hope_ continued to drift, crippled and directionless, through the blackness of space. Kaon and Tarn had implemented some of Nickel’s suggestions, shutting down any unnecessary systems and dimming the lights to conserve power, but there was little they could do to repair their ship. The most they could hope for was for a somewhat-friendly ship to intercept them, and either repair the _Hope_ or simply take them aboard.

At least the chances of such a rescue had increased slightly, again thanks to Nickel. At her instruction Tarn had programmed the ship’s computer to broadcast a message on several lesser-used channels – “dull surprise” – and repeat it at regular intervals. While the phrase made no sense to the DHD, Nickel assured them that most Autobot and neutral vessels recognized it as a distress code, and would respond accordingly.

Until rescue came, however, the six castaways were left to their own devices to pass the time. Nickel, for her part, alternated between locking herself in the guest quarters to read and cornering a member of the copycats to give a checkup and check for anything else that she could fix. By the time a ship finally intercepted them, she mused, these mechs would be in such good repair they would look as if they had just stepped off the assembly line.

“There.” She lightly slapped Kaon’s shoulder to indicate she was through. “How long has that joint been bothering you.”

“Not terribly long,” he replied, raising his arm to rotate his arm in its socket. “I noticed it had a catch in it a few orns back, but no pain until recently.”

“That’d be about when that crack hit your sensory nodes,” she observed. “You took one Pit of a hit to fracture it that much. For being pacifists, you guys seem to get knocked around a fair bit.”

“That happens when you’re on a mission of mercy in a war zone,” Kaon noted darkly as he lowered his arm. “We’ve learned some basic self-defense, but none of us are proficient with weapons. And too often the Autobots seem to take sport in targeting us whenever they spot us. Or any medic, relief worker, or non-fighter on the battlefield.”

Nickel frowned. “There’s an unspoken agreement in this universe that medics don’t get fired on so long as they’re working on a patient. I take it that’s not a thing where you come from.”

“It’s ‘a thing,’ as you put it. It just tends to get ignored by the Autobots.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, Nickel. You didn’t need to do that, but I appreciate it.”

She snorted. “What else am I gonna do while I’m here? Just sit and rust? I fix you guys up because it keeps me from dying of boredom.” She sat on the edge of his massage table, where she’d perched to reach his ailing shoulder. “Anything else I should know about? Optics still working?”

“They are, thank you. It’s nice to see in color again.”

“I’ll bet. Good thing you got ‘em fixed before running into my team – would hate to see you mistake my Tarn for yours or something like that.”

He chuckled softly. “That is true.” He stood. “Is there anything I can do for you in return, Nickel? Perhaps I can offer you a massage, or a realignment of your back strut. From my experience, medics tend to suffer from misalignments quite a bit.”

“Happens when you bend over an operating table all day,” she replied. “But no, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” The last thing she wanted was some strange mech’s hands all over her chassis. That had never led to anything good in her past.

“Very well… but the offer still stands if you change your mind.” He slid his hands beneath her arms, making her tense up, but he only lifted her off the table and set her on the floor.

“I’m capable of getting down myself,” she huffed.

“I know, but I wanted to be helpful. Thank you again.”

She grunted a quick “welcome” and headed out, making a beeline for her room. She wasn’t going to start letting these guys be fraggin’ nice to her. She wasn’t. Sooner or later they’d be picked up, and if she managed to escape arrest by some overzealous Autobot law officer she’d be reunited with the DJD soon enough. Soon this entire misadventure would be nothing more than a hilarious memory, and she’d never see these mechs again… if they were lucky. 

If they were unlucky… she knew Tarn would blow his stack if he ever found out they had duplicates running around. Never mind that said duplicates weren’t intentionally impersonating his team – just wearing the masks and faces of the Decepticon Justice Division would be enough to warrant a place on the list. The fact that these mechs were pacifists who probably wouldn’t even fight back against their evil doppelgangers would earn them no mercy – if anything, it would only egg mechs like Vos and Tesarus on to worse depravities.

She shuddered, her tools rattling in their slots on her shoulders. Why was she so insistent on returning to these mechs anyhow? Yes, they were like a family to her – the only family she’d known ever since her homeworld had been attacked – but at the same time, it wasn’t as if they’d ever shown her much kindness. She felt indebted to them, true… indebted enough to feel obligated to pledge her spark to them. But there was a difference between obligation and true fondness.

 _Yet these mechs saved your life too,_ she thought. _Saved it with no thought of reward, and even at great personal risk. Whereas you know for a fact that the main reason Tarn keeps you around is because you’re valuable to him._

 _Still, he could have easily tossed you away as useless if he wanted to,_ she argued back. _And he protected you from the others… most of the time. That’s gotta count for something._

_But what if one of these days he decides you’re no longer useful? What then?_

She was still mentally bickering with herself when she entered her quarters… and stopped short in her tracks. Something was sitting on the bedside table, too high up for her to get a good look at it. With a huff she climbed up onto the berth for a better look.

“Huh.” Someone had left a tray of snacks by her berth – a cube of the standard-grade energon that everyone on this ship drank, of course, but also an array of rust sticks, grease cookies, oil truffles, crystallized energon candies, and other treats that she hadn’t seen the likes of since she left her homeworld. Despite herself, her mouth flooded with oral lubricants at the sight. Stars, she hadn’t tasted these things in awhile… and were those zinc-flavored truffles? She loved those…

 _Okay,_ who’s trying to bribe you? She frowned and inspected the tray for any sign of who’d left it. If they thought they could buy their way into her spark, they had something else coming.

A folded scrap of flimplast lay propped against the energon cube, and she snagged it and scanned the text:

_Words just don’t seem enough to properly thank you for what you’ve done for our team, Nickel. So call this additional thanks. Your actions mean more to us than you can know._

_Tesarus_

_P.S. Thank you for being more careful with your language. I appreciate it._

She set the card down and grabbed a zinc truffle, retreating back to the berth to munch it and skim over a datapad. Blast it, these mechs were making it VERY hard to not like them.

***

_It hurt. It hurt more than anything she had ever experienced before. The pain was so great there was no room in her CPU to process anything else – all memory and identity had been obliterated to make way for the agony that threatened to rip her apart. She had no strength to dredge up any recollection of what had happened, no strength to fight the pain. It was all she could do to force her pump to keep beating, her fans to keep working, her body online and functioning despite everything._

_Voices reached her audials, fragments of words that slowly assembled themselves into proper sentences in her CPU._

_“…found a survivor…”_

_“… how could such a little scraplet survive that? Especially when much bigger mechs than her were taken down so easily? This one must be something special…”_

_“…just leave her for the scavengers. Ain’t gonna make it…”_

_“…got better things to do. No, Vos, you can’t keep her… no, I don’t think Tarn’ll complain if you play with her before we go…”_

“Nickel? Nickel, wake up!”

She jerked upright, pick in her hand and raised to jam through the optic of whatever unlucky mech had his hand on her chassis. She stopped herself just in time, forcing herself to vent deeply. It was just Not-Helex, just Not-Helex… no one was going to hurt her, she was safe here…

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he assured her, pulling his hand back from her shoulder. “I just heard you whimpering through the walls, and I came in to make sure everything was okay.”

She lowered the pick, still focused on venting and cooling her internals. Part of her wanted to screech at Helex to go away, she didn’t need his comfort or sympathy. The other part of her wanted to curl up in a ball and keen in distress like a sparkling.

“Nickel?”

“I’m fine.” She didn’t sound convincing to herself, so she doubted that answer would satisfy Helex.

“You’re not fine,” he insisted. “Nickel, what’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

She gave a hysterical little laugh. “No, I fuss like a protoform in my sleep for fun, what do you think?”

Helex frowned, worrying the fingers of his smaller set of hands together even as he cupped his chin with one of his larger hands in thought. Then, as if coming to a decision, he scooped her up in his hands.

“ARGH!” She kicked and squirmed, trying to wriggle out of his hands, but he closed his fingers around her in a gentle but firm grip, as if holding a small animal.

“I’m not good at talking to people to make ‘em feel better, like Tarn,” he said, walking out of the room. “But you’re not okay, and I want to help. I only know a couple ways to help people, but… maybe this one will work.”

“You are NOT fragging me, you hear me?!” she shrilled, squirming in his grip. The last thing she needed after reliving one of the most awful moments of her life was some strange mech trying to charm her panel open.

“Oh no, not like that!” He ducked into his quarters. “Hold still, I just need to…”

She yelped as he transformed around her, body splitting apart and forming a chamber around her. As soon as his hands released her she tried to bolt, but doors closed just in front of her, trapping her inside. For a horrible moment she feared she was trapped in his smelter mode, about to be melted down. So much for comforting…

Then she got a better look at his alt mode, and felt like kicking herself for panicking. It was just a small wash rack, still enormous for her but smaller than average. 

“Couldn’t do this in your room,” Helex explained as he activated the spray nozzles in his alt mode. “You don’t have the necessary hookups. I still need cleanser to operate in this mode.”

“Next time give me some warning,” she ordered, though she couldn’t make her voice sound as stern as she wanted. She was too shaky and worn-out from her nightmare, and at this point a warm shower sounded delightful. Maybe it could help clean the memory of pain and fear out of her CPU while she was at it.

For a long time she simply stood under the spray, feeling her joints slowly relax in response to the warm cleanser. Slowly, the nightmare faded to the back of her CPU – not gone totally, but at least pushed aside for the moment. Her optics shuttered, and a faint hum of content issued from her vocalizer.

“You sound happy in there,” Helex noted with a chuckle.

She didn’t have the energy to respond with actual words, and just made a contented noise before opening her optic shutters and looking around. There had to be a rag or something she could use to scrub herself, right?

“Here.” A spindly arm detached from the wall, offering a square of cloth in its pincers.

“Oh… thank you.” She took it and set to washing herself. She wasn’t dirty at all, but somehow the action was soothing, letting her take her CPU off the nightmare.

“Feeling any better?”

“Much. Helex…” She clenched her dentals for a moment, then gave up and let it out. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He extended the arm again to take the cloth once she was through. “I find that a lot of the time, feeling clean helps a mech feel better about themselves. And it just helps relax them, especially if they’ve been through something traumatic.”

She nodded. “Even something as silly as a nightmare?”

“Nightmares aren’t silly. If it frightens you, it’s not silly.” The nozzles shut off and retracted. “Want me to dry you off?”

“Don’t need to. But if you want to...”

“I want to.” And a gust of warm air blew over her plating. “Too warm?”

“Not at all.” She lifted her arms and turned, ensuring the hot air reached every nook and cranny. “Sorry if I woke you up at all.”

“You didn’t. I was up late listening to music. I don’t sleep a whole lot.” He shut off the flow of air and opened his doors. “I just heard you fussing in your sleep, and I wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen off the berth and hurt yourself or something.”

“You didn’t need to,” she insisted. “Even if I DID fall out of the berth. I would have been just fine until morning.”

Helex returned to his root mode, water dripping from his joints. “Maybe I didn’t need to… but I wanted to. We look after each other here.”

Her optics flickered at that. “But I’m not one of you. I mean… not one of your team…”

He smiled at that. “Maybe not officially. But you’re stuck with us for the time being. So until further notice, we’re looking out for you too.” He leaned down and lightly patted her back. “Good night, Nickel. Come find me if you need anything else, okay? I’ll do my best to help you.”

She just nodded and muttered a good-night before heading back for her room, shaking her head the entire way. These mechs just continued to baffle her at every turn. It was understandable that they’d look after one another, and after the Decepticons of her world… but she was a total stranger, and allied to a group of mechs who were the antithesis of everything they stood for, to boot. They had absolutely no reason to help her and every reason to want to see her suffer. And yet they treated her like one of their own.

Helex’s words were still on her CPU when she lay back down and tried to go back to sleep. Had it really been so long since someone had treated her with kindness that a simple act of charity could startle her so much? Had she really become so jaded?

***

Kaon sighed and pushed himself out of the pilot’s chair. “Nothing.”

Tarn tilted his head to one side. “Nothing?”

“No response to the message. Not even an acknowledgment.” He passed a hand over his face, trying to suppress a sigh of dismay. “Which could mean any number of things, some worse than others.”

Tarn nodded. “It’s possible we’re in such a remote sector of space that the message simply isn’t reaching anyone. Or at least anyone who would understand it. It IS coded, after all.”

“Possible,” Kaon replied, “and one possibility I’ve considered. It’s also possible that someone has received it, but are on their way here rather than replying outright. Which implies they have reasons of their own for remaining hidden.” He didn’t want to add that there was a third possibility – that Nickel had lied to them and given them a false code. He didn’t want to admit that there was a possibility that their passenger had betrayed them.

“We have to keep trying,” Tarn told him. “This may be a darker universe than we’re used to, but there must be some sympathetic mechs out there who can help us. And we’re not in dire straits yet – we’ve enough energy to get by for at least an orn, and rescue should come before then.”

“I hope so, Captain,” Kaon replied softly. “I certainly hope so.”

Tarn patted his shoulder. “Go find some means of distracting yourself, my friend. I’ll man the radio for awhile. If a response comes, I’ll comm you immediately.”

Kaon nodded his thanks and left the cockpit, making for his quarters. He and Tarn had been taking turns at the ship’s controls, ensuring the distress signal kept playing at the scheduled intervals and listening for any replies. So far the closest they had come to a response was an echo that turned out to be their own signal bouncing off a rogue planetoid. Just enough to get their hopes up… and for it to hurt when said hopes came crashing back down.

He shook his head and palmed open the door to his room. Enough of this. He had to think positively. If their Captain could remain optimistic despite the odds being stacked so high against them, then so could he…

He paused at the threshold to his room, rebooting his optics. They weren’t glitching at all – indeed, they were working perfectly for the first time in vorns – but that still didn’t explain the diminutive form that had parked its aft on his massage table and was gazing at him expectantly.

It took him a moment to kick his vocalizer into gear. “Nickel?”

“No, the Necrobot, who do you think?” She smirked at him. “That offer for a realignment still on the table? My spinal array is killing me, especially down in the lumbar struts, and I don’t want to even think about what kinda mess my shoulder joints are in.”

Kaon stared a moment longer… then chuckled softly. “What brought this sudden change of ember about? Or spark, I suppose you call it…”

“Lady’s got to keep her secrets,” Nickel replied. “Just promise you’ll stop if I ask, all right? I don’t have good experiences with being touched.”

She didn’t elaborate further, and Kaon was far too polite to ask, but he caught the implications in her words and made note of them. “You have my word. Could you lay down on your front for me? I promise I will be gentle.”

She complied, and he carefully arranged her limbs and set to work. Perhaps she was warming up to their group after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , Vos was bored out of his cranial unit. This was a dangerous scenario – a bored Vos would soon be seeking out some means of entertaining himself, and that usually came at the expense of his teammates. Usually Tarn didn’t allow enough time between hunts to let Vos sink too deeply into ennui, but with their hunt for Nickel dragging on with no sign of success on the horizon, the little mech was going crazy with boredom – well, crazier than normal, anyhow.

He burbled and hissed to himself in his bizarre dialect, kicking a scrap of metal down the corridor as he made his way back to his quarters. There was nothing to do. He’d already taken apart the deactivated chassis of a luckless war deserter twenty times, putting it together in unnatural but amusing ways. He’d managed to antagonize Tesarus into losing his temper and trashing the mess hall in his attempts to get his hands on the skinny mech, an act that would earn Tarn and Kaon’s wrath later but had been fun while it had lasted. None of the rest of the DJD was rising to the bait when he tried to needle them, however, and he’d finally given up and abandoned that tactic. 

He wasn’t about to go to the ship’s tiny library in hopes of diverting himself – three-quarters of the datapads there consisted of dull-as-slag poetry, much of it Megatron’s, and he was sick to death of poetry. The remaining quarter was Nickel’s medical data, and while that was usually informative in ways no medic would have appreciated, he’d already read every datapad at least three times. If only there was something NEW to divert himself with…

As he passed Kaon’s quarters he chanced a glance through the open door… and paused, curiosity piqued. The blind mech’s quarters were spartan to the point of looking like a prison cell, doubtless so he didn’t trip and hurt himself… but sprawled in the middle of his berth was a possibility at relieving Vos’ boredom.

The tiny part of his CPU devoted to logic warned him not to do it. Kaon would have his head mounted on a pike if he went through with this – the electric-powered interrogator didn’t lose his temper often, but he was quite protective of this aspect of his personality and would unleash Pit if anything were to happen to it.

Vos shrugged, mentally squashing that annoying voice of reason. Sure, it would land him in hot slag… but it would be fun.

The Pet gave a languid stretch, curling its lip plates back in a wide yawn. It rolled over on its back and kicked at the air, then fell back into a lazy doze. Vos tittered softly and slipped into the room. As a young sparkling he’d gotten his kicks tormenting animals, but had moved on to larger fare as he’d grown older. But perhaps a return to the creatures would spice things up a bit. And he’d never ‘faced a sparkeater before…

“Don’t even think about it.”

Vos shrieked and whirled around to see Kaon standing in the doorway. The blank optic sockets stared at the wall, but the frown creasing his features was aimed directly at him.

-How’d you know I was here?- 

“Please, Vos,” Kaon said flatly. “I may be blind, but I’m not stupid. You talk to yourself constantly, even when you’re trying to be stealthy.” He made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Get away from the Pet before I feed your spark to it.”

Vos grumbled and flipped an obscene gesture toward the turbofox-turned-sparkeater before stalking out. The Pet responded with another toothy yawn and a smug flip of its tail. _I’ll get him for this later_ , he vowed. Stupid animal…

“I didn’t realize you were into bestiality,” Kaon noted. “Then again, I shouldn’t put anything beneath you, should I?”

-Drop dead- Vos huffed. -Though frankly, I don’t care who or what my partner is so long as they put up a good fight for me.-

“You’re disgusting.”

-You only say that ‘cause you can’t get anyone to touch you with a three-meter pole.-

“Some of us don’t need to frag to keep ourselves entertained.”

-Some of you are fraggin’ boring. And I mean that in every sense of the word. At least Nickel was entertaining.-

Kaon froze, and Vos realized he’d screwed up big time. Optic shutters narrowed over blackened, useless optical receptors as he processed that statement.

“Explain yourself,” Vos demanded. “And you’d better not say that you’ve been assaulting our medic behind everyone’s backs.”

-Uh… then I won’t tell you.-

Apparently it wasn’t just harm to the Pet that could get Kaon well and truly fragged off. Before Vos could so much as twitch a digit the blind mech had his neck in a viselike grip, squeezing with enough force to send warnings of imminent crush damage to his readouts. Sparks fountained out of the energy prongs on his back, lightning arcing between them as the normally-controlled interrogator flew into a rage.

“You fool!” he growled. “You utter fool! Do you know how hard Tarn has worked to gain her trust? To ensure Nickel’s loyalty to our cause? He intended to have her bond with us! And your actions just might have ruined that forever!”

-Hey, don’t go blaming me for everything! I know for a fact I’m not the only one that’s kicked her around! Slag, even your Pet’s given her grief!-

“A little roughness she can handle, but rape?”

-Wasn’t it you who said I could play with her a little when we first found her? Back when we weren’t sure if she was gonna make it? Didn’t hear you griping about it then.-

“That was before she proved tougher than we estimated… and before she became our medic. I thought you would leave her alone after that.”

-I did… mostly. When she could defend herself. But how could I resist such a nice piece of metal? She fights back so nicely, it’s rare I get a partner that does that. Most of the time they just scream like a wussy human, or just lay there and take it…-

“Really.” That voice, level and sonorous, nonetheless vibrated with an undercurrent of sheer rage. “I knew your tastes were depraved, Vos, but I never imagined your perversions would cost us so dearly.”

Vos shuddered in Kaon’s grip and craned his neck to look up into Tarn’s masked face. -Uh… hi boss. I can explain this…-

“I’m sure you can,” Tarn snarled. “But I’m not interested in hearing it. Not when your interference has damaged our cause.”

-So what if I had a little fun with the medic!- Vos protested. -Medics are a shanix a dozen! We can always get another one!-

“Do you realize how long it took me to strengthen Nickel’s loyalty to us?” Tarn hissed. “How hard I worked to undo the damage your initial assault did on her? She was a stable, level-headed mechanism despite her bursts of temper, and having her bonded to the five of us could have united us as nothing else could. But no… you had to ensure she had something to fear from us. Your sick fetish was more important to you than loyalty to the cause.”

Vos squirmed to break free of Kaon’s grip, but a jolt of electricity struck him, and he went limp, twitching.

“Deal with him,” Tarn ordered. “Don’t kill him – he still has uses. But I don’t want him walking for a good long while.”

Kaon grimaced. “I don’t interface with mechs. Especially not his type.”

“You don’t have to interface with him, just discipline him however you see fit,” Tarn replied. “Use your imagination. Once you’re done with him, lock him in his quarters and join me on the bridge. If we’re to find Nickel and undo the damage Vos has done, time is of the essence.”

“Yes, sir.” Vos decided he REALLY didn’t like the cold smile that crossed Kaon’s face just then. “I know just what to do with him…”

***

Rescue.

After weeks of drifting derelict through the stars, a ship had picked up their distress signal, and was homing in on their location. It wasn’t any of the DHD’s first choice of a rescue – said ship was a destroyer, bristling with weaponry and looming over the _Ember’s Hope_ like an electro-panther creeping up on a petrorabbit – but beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. And the ship’s pilot had promised them that so long as the Hope showed no signs of aggression, their commander would order no attack on them.

For the first time since coming to this strange alternate universe, Captain Tarn allowed himself to feel a sliver of the very emotion that named their ship. Perhaps they weren’t doomed. Perhaps there were good mechanisms in this universe after all.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Kaon murmured.

Tarn sighed. “You are just determined to find the negative in every situation, aren’t you?”

“After all we’ve been through, can you blame me? Nothing ever seems to come easy for us… so for this rescue to go so smoothly worries me. It makes me wonder if this is a trap.”

“Have a little faith in your fellow mechanisms, Kaon.”

Kaon looked about to argue, but a shudder from the _Hope_ interrupted him. He checked the readouts, frowning.

“We’re caught in their tractor beam,” he announced gravely. “There’s no going back now.”

“You make it sound as if we’re flying into the heart of a black hole,” Tarn chuckled. “At ease, Kaon. Surely these mechanisms have better natures we can appeal to. With their aid, we should be able to make it to Cybertron proper. From there, we simply need to offer our services to… well, whomever is the noblest mech we can find. Given that Megatron is a warlord here, I assume that would be Optimus Prime.”

At that, Kaon finally managed a smile. “I never thought the day would come when we would willingly ally ourselves with Optimus Prime.”

“Life is full of strange twists of fate, isn’t it?” Tarn agreed. “Speaking of strange twists… how fares our guest?”

“I think she’s finally growing to trust us,” Kaon replied. “She allowed me to give her a massage and realignment a few nights ago.”

“Ah, good! I was beginning to think she wouldn’t let anyone close to her. She’s like a wild turbofox pup – adorable, but willing to snap your digits off if you try to pet her.”

Kaon’s smile vanished. “I fear that being… pet… in the past has been harmful to her. She hasn’t come out and said it outright, but the way she shies from being touched, even in pleasant ways, speaks volumes in the way words cannot.”

Tarn nodded grimly. He had suspected much the same, but to hear Kaon confirm his suspicions was still difficult. In a way, their unexpected guest was just as broken and hurt as some of their “patients” back in their home universe… and had chosen to cover her wounds with psychological armor instead of properly healing them. Then again, when said healing entailed allowing others to get close – and risking getting hurt again – no wonder she preferred to be prickly and cold instead of addressing the issue.

“Has she spoken to you about this?”

Kaon shook his head. “Not directly. She only says that being touched in the past wasn’t a good thing. She may be referring to a physical beating… but I sense she’s alluding to worse, even if she won’t admit it aloud.”

Tarn scowled behind his mask. It was possible Nickel’s abuse had occurred before she had joined the Decepticon Justice Division, but given what little he had gleaned regarding them, it was entirely possible that those mechs were at least partially responsible for her trauma. Small wonder she was so icy around the Decepticon Homemaking Division, despite all their efforts to prove they were benign. So much of her behavior around them, from her initial attack on Vos to her refusal to be touched, made sense in that light.

“I’ll have to talk to her,” Tarn mused. “See if she’s willing to open up at all. If she can talk about what happened… perhaps she will have a chance to heal.”

“If anyone can get her to open up, it would be you,” Kaon acknowledged. “But tread carefully, sir. I know you want to help her… but given who she’s allied to, we can’t afford to offend or hurt her and make an enemy of her.”

“I’m always careful,” Tarn replied, chuckling.

The ship shuddered once more as it docked within the hold of the destroyer, and the holoscreen flickered to life, showing a sleek, blue-armored mech with a scarlet visor and sharp claws that he waved about with flamboyant gestures as he talked. 

“Welcome aboard the _Obliterator_ , finest ship in the Vehicon navy!” he crowed. “Or what’s left of the Vehicon navy anyhow… but never mind that! This is your captain speaking, or rather your general, Jetstorm! Just sit tight and we’ll have your ship fixed straigtawa-” The mech froze, getting a good look at Kaon and Tarn for the first time. “You.”

Tarn felt his ember plummet in his chest. “We’re not who you think you are.”

“I KNOW who you are!” Jetstorm retorted. “And you picked the WRONG ship to beg for help, you miserable sadists! Our leader’s got a strut to pick with you!”

***

There was something soothing about watching Tesarus cook – though “cook” was really the wrong word for it. Not many Cybertronian delicacies actually required cooking to make, and extreme heat could actually make some of them combust or even explode spectacularly. But the actual term they used to describe the act of crafting various drinks, candies, and solid fuels didn’t translate well into human language, so “cook” was the closest word one could find.

At any rate, Nickel was enjoying the show as Tesarus molded lumps of grease and semi-solid energon into delicate pastries. Despite his enormous size, he worked with an odd sort of grace, his touch deft and carefully calculated. And it was strangely fascinating to see him take raw materials and press, fold, and pinch them until he had a miniature masterpiece in his hands.

“Other kinds of artwork have a permanence to them,” Tesarus mused as he opened his chest cavity and slid his handiwork inside. “Sculpture, paintings, digital artwork, writing… even music if you think to record it. But the culinary arts are temporary by their very nature – to fully appreciate them, you have to destroy them. It’s a paradox, but an oddly beautiful one, no?”

Nickel chuckled. “Here I thought Tarn was the poet, Tessie. But you’ve got a gift with words too.”

Tesarus ducked his head, his turquoise X-visor blushing pink. “Awwwww… I’m really not that poetic. I just like what I do. And heh… I like that nickname. Never thought I’d hear you use it, though.”

“The other Tess wasn’t big on it,” she replied. “Then again, he had a foul mouth and a sadistic nature, and his idea of art was smashing things.” She idly toyed with one of the zinc truffles he had given her earlier. “You really are his mirror image.”

“If the DJD are as despicable as you say, I’m happy to be one of their opposites.” He shut his chest cavity. “Mkay, the pastries need to heat up so they can set, then they’ll be ready. This’ll be the last batch of these I can make – we’re out of grease – so we’ll have to make ‘em last.”

“How short are we on supplies?” she asked. “I thought we had enough to get by for a few more weeks.”

“We do, but that’s pure sustenance-level energy,” Tesarus replied. “Plain energon and the like. I’m distressingly short on materials for my recipes. I’m holding off on using the best stuff as long as I can, but I do want to make us the occasional luxury every once in a while. Boost morale and all that.”

Trust a DHD member to be that fiddly, she supposed. Still, it was hard to fault him. He wanted to help out in this crisis as much as he could, even if the best means he could find to do so was to whip up dessert. 

“But Tarn announced not too long ago that someone finally picked up our distress signal,” Tesarus went on. “And they’ve agreed to take us aboard until we can repair the _Ember’s Hope_! With any luck, we’ll be able to find a hospitable world to resupply.”

A peculiar knot formed in Nickels internals at that. “Did he happen to mention who was picking us up?”

“A ship called the _Obliteration_. I know, it’s an intimidating name, but they’ve agreed to help us so long as we don’t show aggression.”

 _And you lot couldn’t be aggressive if your lives depended on it_ , Nickel thought amusedly. Still, something about this whole situation bothered her. She knew that name – her Tarn had mentioned it just recently as a ship of interest in one of their hunts. Was the captain on the List? Or was it a craft belonging to a potential ally? He hadn’t specified, at least not within audial-shot of her, so she couldn’t be certain…

The ship shuddered again, and Tesarus’ smile wavered. “That didn’t sound good…”

Tarn’s voice echoed over the intercom. _“DHD, secure yourselves in your quarters! Barricade the doors! We’re under attack!”_

Tesarus yelped and fled the galley, leaving a mess of dirty utensils in his wake. Then he scooted back into the room and snatched Nickel up in his hands, bolting again before she had time to protest.

“I’ll hide you in my quarters until Tarn gives the all-clear!” he told her.

“Fraggit all to the Pit, Tess, give me some warning next time!”

“Sorry, please don’t swear at me, sorry.” He rounded a corner, pedes skidding on the floor. “But we gotta get somewhere safe!”

“You honestly think hiding in your room is going to protect you from an attack?” she demanded. “If whoever-it-is is that determined, they’re just going to bust the doors down and that’ll be the end of it!”

“The doors to our quarters are reinforced,” he countered. “It’d take a gestalt to break through them.”

Nickel could think of a dozen counter-arguments to that – that cowering in one’s room was a rather cowardly way to react to an attack, that this tactic just left you conveniently boxed in for an attacker to finish off at their leisure, that he was huge and could probably easily beat the slag out of whoever their opponent was – but Tesarus slid to a halt before she could voice any of them. He cupped a massive hand over her as if to shield her, but she peeked out through a gap in his fingers anyhow.

Standing before them was a hulking magenta-and-gold femme, broad-shouldered and with a savage-looking cannon barrel jutting from her chest. She was very nearly Tesarus’ height, if not slightly taller, and she held Tarn in a headlock so casually that it was as if it took her no effort at all to keep the Captain subdued. On her left, a slender blue mech cackled maniacally as he clutched a squirming Vos in his claws. On her right, a violet motorcycle-former kept Kaon’s hands locked behind his back, jamming the barrel of a pistol into the side of his head as an all-too-obvious threat.

“Well, well, well,” the femme growled, optics narrowing as she regarded Tesarus and Nickel with obvious disgust. “So the Decepticon Justice Division thinks they can hide from me with a simple coat of paint? That will prove a costly miscalculation!”

“We’re not-” began Tesarus.

“Silence!” she thundered. “The lot of you deserve no mercy… and I shall show you none! You killed my consort, and I, General Strika, will take the price of his spark out of your own plating!”


	9. Chapter 9

There wasn’t a Decepticon alive that hadn’t heard of General Strika. One of the few femmes to achieve any sort of rank in Megatron’s forces, she had been taken as a complete joke at her enlistment, assigned to the most demeaning tasks and the subject of pranks and abuse. But Strika hadn’t complained, content to let her ruthless efficiency at every task – and brute strength in dealing with either Autobot scum or simply those who crossed her or got in her way – speak for themselves.

Megatron was not a commander who considered a Cybertronian’s personality programming to be their defining feature, and when word had reached him that the femme was shaping up to be one of his toughest and most cunning soldiers, he had responded by appointing her co-general of his Vehicon fleet. And she had responded to the promotion like a plant responding to rain and sunlight – she flourished, earning herself a well-deserved reputation as one of the most competent and dangerous officers in his army. Even sharing her command post with her fellow general, Obsidian, did nothing to stain her reputation.

It was ironic, Nickel thought, that it would be her fellow general that would lead to her downfall. For her Tarn had learned that the two had grown close, to the point of becoming consorts… and according to Tarn’s rigid code of honor, loyalty to any other mechanism than Megatron was tantamount to treason. Both Strika and Obsidian had earned spots on the List… and it seemd that Obsidian, at least, had paid the price.

“Drop whatever’s in your hands, Tesarus,” Strika thundered.

“N-n-no,” Tesarus stuttered. “You c-can’t have her.”

“Holding a hostage isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Strika snarled. “And don’t even think about crushing her either! You so much as twitch funny and your head is slag!”

“I’d do what she says, compadre,” Jetstorm advised, wings twitching eagerly. “You don’t mess with the General when she’s in one of her moods.”

“Did I ask for your commentary, flyboy?” Strika growled. “Shut it!”

“Okay, okay, Primus,” Jetstorm muttered. “What crawled up your exhaust and rotted?”

Strika gestured sharply at Tesarus, and the mech finally opened his hands. The Vehicon general’s optics narrowed at the sight of Nickel, while the third Vehicon in their party outright laughed.

“It’s just a minicon,” Thrust snickered. “Should throw it to that rust-eater that Tankorr can never seem to catch.”

Some of Nickel’s courage returned at that, and she glared at the motorcycle-former. “Try it, lightweight.”

“Oh-ho, she’s a spitfire!” Jetstorm cackled. “Whatcha want us to do with this one?”

Strika shoved the DHD’s Tarn down to his knees. He made no move to get up, and Nickel saw now that his hands had been cuffed behind his back. Apparently satisfied that the mech would stay put, Strika strode toward Tesarus, grabbing his wrist and forcing his hand up until she was looking Nickel in the optic. Nickel, for her part, only glared back. She wasn’t afraid of Strika, not for her sake at least. 

For the DHD’s sake… well, that was another story.

“You wear the Decepticon symbol,” she noted, “yet you have the build and optics of an Autobot. A medic, no less. The DJD isn’t known for taking Aubot captives.”

“Captive, slag,” Nickel retorted. “I’m a ‘Con.”

“Tarn’s not one to add new members to his team,” she continued. “And you’re rather delicate to be helping with his sadistic cause. Unless you’re just another Pet.”

Nickel bared her dental plates in a snarl. “Fraggit, I’m not a pet either! I’m Nickel, and I’m the medic for the Decepticon Justice Division. Which these guys AREN’T!”

Strika’s facial build didn’t allow for much expression, but her optics practically screamed “smirk.” “Don’t try to protect these mechs, Nickel. They’re not worth a stripped screw.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Nickel spat. “But that’s not the point! The point is that you’ve got the wrong mechs! These aren’t the DJD you’re lookin’ for, General.”

Strika gave a mirthless chuckle. “Don’t let my size fool you, little medic. I’m not as stupid as I look. And there’s no mech functioning who would dare impersonate the Decepticon Justice Division. Not when the penalty for doing so is painful death.”

Nickel turned to look up into Tesarus’ face. The chef wasn’t even doing anything to defend himself – he just stood there and shook like a decrepit engine. He wasn’t going to be a lick of help. Figured it’d be up to her to pull them out of this mess.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Nickel said, “but here goes – these fraggers aren’t the DJD. They’re the DHD – Decepticon Homemaking Division – and they’re from an alternate universe where things run differently. They’re mirror copies.”

Strika’s optics flickered in response, but she didn’t speak immediately… giving the flyboy the opportunity to jump in.

“She’s not just a spitfire, she’s crazy in the CPU!” he crowed. “This is hilarious! She must be Tarn’s court jester as well as his medic!”

“Let’s just kill them all and be done with it,” Thrust huffed, shoving his gun harder against Kaon’s head until the masseuse’s neck was bent at a near-ninety-degree angle.

“Oh come on, where’s your sporting spirit?” Jetstorm retorted. “Let’s at least have a little fun with ‘em before we off ‘em! It’s not like they don’t deserve-”

“Shut up!” Strika roared, her voice filled with enough rage to make Tesarus jump in place. “I didn’t bring the two of you with me to hear you run your vocalizers!”

Thrust went quiet, while Jetstorm muttered mutinously to himself.

“You tell a tall tale, medic,” Strika went on. “But as a fellow Decepticon, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Prove it to me. Prove these mechs are who you say they are. Otherwise we offline them on the spot.”

A knot of tension Nickel hadn’t even noticed until then eased. Personality differences could be faked for a short time, and color differences obviously weren’t enough to appease her… but there was at least one other key difference they could exploit. If Strika would permit it…

“Tess, put me down and transform.” 

“Oh no you don’t!” Thrust barked, swinging his gun from Kaon to Tesarus. “This is a trick, Strika! They’ll kill us in their alt modes!”

“You know perfectly well how to kill a mech in his alt mode, Thrust,” Strika growled. “He’s no more a danger in his alt mode than in his root mode.” She waved one hand at the chef. “Proceed.”

Tesarus still trembled, but he slowly lowered Nickel to the floor and backed up a few steps, hands raised as if to show he held no weapon. Then he folded himself down to his alt mode – a cube-shaped appliance with a cloudy square of plasteel allowing one to see into the interior.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Thrust grumbled.

Jetstorm burst out laughing. “Oh my Primus! Somebody pinch me, I must be dreaming! What kind of downgrade is that?”

Strika’s optics flickered again as she took in Tesarus’ oven alt. Nickel waited tensely for the General to respond. She wasn’t sure how many knew what the DJD’s Tesarus had for an alt mode – he was far more infamous and feared for his root mode, after all – but she hoped Strika would know that it certainly hadn’t been a kitchen appliance. Or that it was virtually impossible for a mech to change alt modes from a repurposed trash shredder to something far less violent without serious consequences.

“Then it is true,” she said at last. “This mech is not Tesarus.”

“He’s still Tesarus,” Nickel replied. “Just a different Tesarus. A mirror-universe copy.”

The General nodded slowly. “The others are much the same?”

“Far as I know,” Nickel replied. “Vos there’s a computer, Kaon’s a massage chair, Helex is some kind of portable washrack…”

Strika waved away the rest of her explanation. “Release your captives, Jetstorm and Thrust. Remove Tarn’s cuffs and tell Tankorr to stop chasing Helex.”

“Are you mad, General?” Thrust demanded. “This is a trick!”

“Do you dare defy me?” Strika retorted. “I gave an order! I expect it followed at once!”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Jetstorm muttered, dropping Vos to the floor. “You get Fake Tarn, Thrust. I’ll go call off Tankorr.” And he swooped away, leaving a grumbling Thrust to fiddle with Tarn’s cuffs.

Strika watched Thrust closely until he had removed the restraints, then turned back to Nickel. “I demand an explanation.”

“Just promise you’ll hold off on shooting or dismantling anyone until I’m done, and you’ll get it,” Nickel replied.

“Deal.” And for the first time in their meeting, Strika’s optics glittered with something resembling an actual smile. “I have a feeling it shall be interesting, if nothing else.”

***

“So… you’re not gonna shoot us and dump our bodies out the airlock?” asked Vos, fiddling his fingers together worriedly.

“We weren’t planning on it,” Jetstorm replied, “but if you were really looking forward to it…”

“No thanks, I’m good,” the archivist replied quickly.

The DHD were gathered in a conference room aboard the _Obliteration_ , gathered around a table to hear Jetstorm deliver the terms of their stay on the destroyer. The _Ember’s Hope_ was docked and undergoing repairs even as they spoke, and while it relieved Tarn to know that despite everything their rescuers were making good on one promise, he still felt uneasy knowing that their one chance of escape should things go sour was in Strika’s hands. And Nickel… Nickel had been taken away by the General herself for questioning. He could only wonder just what she was telling her right now.

He shook his head briefly and turned his attention back to Jetstorm. The mech couldn’t be any more different from the Jetstorm he was familiar with – deep blue and highly polished compared to the muddy rust-orange of his counterpart from his universe, and flamboyant and loud where the other was quiet and shy. He supposed that was rather the point, however. It seemed most things were flipped around in this universe.

“So the deal’s this,” Jetstorm explained, spreading his claws as if fanning out a deck of cards. “We fix your ship, and you get room and board on the _Obliteration_ until it’s spaceworthy again. But we’re not runnin’ a cruise here – this is a working vessel! You five are gonna pull your weight here!”

“We are not afraid of hard work,” Tarn assured him. “Though we do each have our specialties. We’ll do most tasks that are put before us, but are best at those specialties.”

“Yeah, yeah, Nickel said something like that.” Jetstorm didn’t sit down but hovered over his chair, wings twitching and body bobbing back and forth as if he were physically incapable of holding still. “But this is a military ship, fellas. So as pretty as your voice might be, Tarn, we don’t exactly need a singer here. Same with an archivist or a masseuse or a fancy chef. A cleaner we could use… the rest of you’ll have to do other jobs.”

Vos groaned. “Some of us aren’t built for heavy labor.”

“It’s better than being left to rust in deep space,” Helex pointed out. “Let’s face it, we don’t have a lot of other options.”

Tarn nodded in agreement. “We will do whatever is required, Jetstorm. We are not soldiers, so I hope the tasks you have in mind don’t entail warfare… but almost anything else we can do.”

“Fantastic!” Jetstorm gushed, rubbing his claws together. “There’s a huge shipment of supplies that we still haven’t gotten stashed in the hold – you guys can start there. Then quarters need to be cleaned out, and we’ve got that pest down in the engine room that keeps eluding Tankorr for whatever reason…”

Tarn suppressed a sigh and pulled out a datapad, making note of the litany of jobs Jetstorm rattled off. It seemed they would have their work cut out for them on the _Obliteration_. But so long as it meant their ship would be repaired and they would be safe from Strika’s wrath, he supposed they could put up with it. And they had dedicated their lives to making the lives of other mechanisms easier. If that entailed doing the dirty work aboard a war vessel, then so be it.

He couldn’t help but wonder how Nickel was holding up, however. Not worried for her safety – he had no doubts that she could handle herself – but given that she had direct ties toward the DJD, a team hated by the crew of the _Obliteration_ , he hoped they wouldn’t take out their anger on her. Hopefully Strika was a reasonable individual…

***

Strika opened the door to the _Obliteration’s_ medical bay. “Our previous medic was discovered trafficking information to a fanatical separist group. We had to… dispatch him. His apprentice, Scalpel, has been filling in, but we could use an experienced hand to help us.”

Nickel nodded and scooted past the bulky Vehicon to enter the room – Strika had let her walk in under her own power, as if prizing the medic’s dignity over expedience. “Only fair, I suppose. If the DHD has to work to earn their keep, so should I.”

Evidently that struck the right note with the General, for she laughed and shut the doors behind them. “I like you, little medic. You should terminate your contract or whatever you have with the Justice Division and stay on with us. We could use one like you.”

Nickel didn’t answer, just took a quick survey of the repair bay. It was larger than the one aboard either the _Peaceful Tyranny_ or the _Ember’s Hope_ , but older and well-used, the equipment slightly out-of-date and showing signs of wear. A spindly silver-and-turquoise Vehicon hunched over an offline chassis, a cracked clear visor flipping down over his optics to magnify his vision as he tinkered with delicate wiring. A stack of crates took up one corner, medical supplies of some sort that had never been properly put away, and stains of questionable origin marked the floors.

“It’s not much,” Strika admitted, “but we, too, have lived on the run for some time. Things like housekeeping tend to slide when you’re fighting for your life.” She raised her already-booming voice to address the medic. “Scalpel! You have a new assistant!”

“Hmm,” the medic grunted, raising one clawed hand in greeting before going back to work.

“Typical,” Strika huffed. “He works hard, but gets too absorbed in his work. He probably won’t even realize you are here.”

_Fine by me,_ thought Nickel. She was perfectly happy sharing her workspace with a mech who would ignore her. Better that then having unsavory attention directed at her… or the well-meaning but smothering attentions of the DHD…

_Not smothering,_ she corrected. _They’ve been helpful, but they’ve also left you alone when you’ve asked. Which is far more than what SOME mechs have done…_

“Nickel!”

She whirled. “General?”

“I just got through telling you that medic’s quarters are next door. They’re small, but then, so are you.” That remark was stated so matter-of-factly that even Nickel couldn’t take it as an insult. “Any questions?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll get started right away.”

Strika regarded her a minute longer, then gestured for her to follow. “Not yet. We’ll talk a little more.”

Nickel scowled. “I’ve told you everything I know about the DHD. And I have no idea where the DJD are, so don’t expect me to betray them.”

“You’ve made that clear. We’ll talk about… other matters.”

Nickel’s scowl deepened. Other matters? Why did she get the feeling she wasn’t going to like these “other matters?” But Strika was the closest thing she had to a superior officer right now, and it wouldn’t do her any good to disobey orders right now.

Strika walked slowly, but still had a long stride that forced Nickel to nearly run to keep up with her. The bulky femme remained silent until they reached the ship’s mess hall, a room just as stained and weathered as the medbay, though at least the stains here were simple fuel and edibles rather than anything questionable. A lone tankformer hunched at one table, nursing a cube, but at a sharp gesture from Strika he scooped up his fuel and trundled out.

“Sit,” Strika ordered, going to the energon dispenser and filling two cubes.

Nickel didn’t argue, and climbed up onto the nearest bench. Strika plunked a cube the size of the medic’s head in front of her before sitting down next to her, the bench creaking under her weight. 

For a long moment, neither femme spoke. Strika drank deeply from her cube while Nickel just sipped from hers, and for her part Nickel was content to let the silence hold. She still had no idea what the General wanted to talk about, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t be anything good. Doubtless she’d want information on taking down the DJD, information Nickel felt she couldn’t give…

“Why are you still loyal to them?”

Nickel spluttered, fuel hitting her fans, and she doubled over coughing. Fraggit, she hadn’t known Strika was a blasted telepath… she thought Soundwave was the only mech with that ability in Megatron’s forces…

“The Decepticon Justice Division,” Strika repeated. “Why are you still loyal to them?”

“I heard you the first time,” Nickel rasped, thumping her chest in an effort to get her fans started again. “And I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

Strika tilted her head to one side. “You’re my guest for the time being… though I could easily make you my captive if I so chose. You ARE a member of the Justice Division, after all – the very mechs who killed Obsidian. The only reason I didn’t crush you underfoot right away is because I believe you played no direct part in his death.”

Nickel raised an optic ridge. “How do you know that?”

“You’re a medic. Medics are beholden to protect life, not destroy it. And even in the cases of those medics so deranged and corrupt that they’ve forgotten their original function, I believe they would not make a mech’s death so messy.” She drained the last of her cube. “We recovered Obsidian’s chassis from the swamps of Bast. None of his wounds could have been the handiwork of an experienced medic.”

“Tarn generally doesn’t let me leave the ship while they’re on a hunt,” Nickel replied. “Probably because it’s my job to fix mechs, and it’s his job to make sure they stay broken.”

Strika nodded. “Though I say again – why are you still loyal to him? To any of them? It cannot be the promise of a reward – Tarn and his henchmechs don’t do what they do for shanix. I would say it is love, but I don’t believe the Justice Division are capable of love… and you don’t strike me as the type to let romance sway you.” Her penetrating gaze rested on Nickel. “Is it revenge, perhaps? Or simply a lack of any other options?”

Nickel bristled and glowered back. “None of your business. I work with them for my own reasons. I don’t see how those reasons can help you track them down.”

“Call it curiosity,” Strika replied. “I may be a hard commander, but unlike some officers, I am not cruel to those under my command. Nor do I permit my Vehicons to abuse and assault one another. Unlike some commanders.”

Nickel’s fingers clenched around the corners of her cube; had she been any bigger or stronger, it would have shattered in her grip. “You don’t know slag about what Tarn permits,” she snarled.

“I can guess,” Strika replied evenly. “Scalpel did a thorough examination of Obsidian’s body. At least one of the Justice Division used him for their own disgusting pleasure before they threw him away. And I don’t think they reserve that kind of treatment for their targets.”

Nickel shoved the cube away. “You don’t know anything!”

“I know enough.” Strika’s gaze remained on her, unflinching but not unkind. “The Justice Division have been cruel to you… I can only wonder why you choose to stay with them despite that. Is what you hope to gain from them worth that much? Or is it fear that keeps you bound to Tarn’s side?”

_Shut up!_ Nickel roared inside her CPU, but she couldn’t argue aloud. Strika was right on all counts – Tarn couldn’t give a slag about her safety and well-being, so long as she was able to patch them together after a hunt. Why else would he do nothing to stop Vos from raping her whenever her guard was down? Why else would he turn a blind optic when the Pet went after her to use her as a chew toy? So long as neither of them actually killed her, what did he care? So long as she was still able to solder a wire or mend a torn panel, he didn’t need to trouble himself with her well-being.

And yet she stayed. She told herself it was because of the organic army that had wiped out her homeworld, that serving the DJD was her way of exacting revenge – any contribution to the Decepticon forces, no matter how small, mattered in the end, right? And given that the five of them had plucked her damaged chassis out of the mud and given her shelter at the lowest point of her existence, she did owe them her life. It was difficult to turn her back on them after that.

Yet Strika’s words made her spark flare in rage. Not just because that was her Tarn being disparaged, but because there was a lot of truth to her words… even the part about staying out of fear. For she had seen firsthand what kind of damage Tarn did to those he considered traitors, and abandoning the team could very well be considered treason.

“I understand loyalty very well,” Strika went on, her voice softening unexpectedly. “And should you choose to return to your Tarn and your Justice Division, that is your decision. However, should you change your mind, there is a place for you on the _Obliteration._ ” Her optics flashed with unexpected humor. “Although the Homemaking Division seems to have taken a shine to you, hmm? Perhaps you will simply opt to trade one Tarn for another?”

Nickel snorted, leaping on the chance to change the subject. “This bunch of goody-two-pedes? They’re a whole crew of softies. They won’t last a quatrex in this sector.”

“You would be surprised what a mech trying to save his own life could be capable of…”

The tankformer burst back into the room, howling and flailing.

“Blast it, Tankorr!” Strika growled. “When I want privacy, I fragging expect it!”

“The rust-eater!” Tankorr howled. “Loose on the ship! Tankorr tried catch, but escaped engine room!”

Nickel’s spark contracted. “Tell me he’s joking.”

“He’s not bright enough to joke,” Strika replied. “Get to the medical bay! We’ve got a monster to catch, and there will be casualties.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long!
> 
> Also I have absolutely no shame for ripping off the design from the Rust Monster in "Dungeons and Dragons" for the design of the rust-eater...

Rust-eaters weren’t quite the nightmares of Cybertronian legend that sparkeaters were – a creature that could harm your body was bad enough, but something designed to devour your very soul had a special kind of horror to it – but they were certainly nothing to be trifled with. Many a mech had underestimated the creatures, thinking them harmless or at least not overly dangerous, only to live to regret their lapse in caution later. Nickel herself had treated the consequences of such encounters before, both mechs on Prion and the dumber members of the DJD – and each encounter had ended with rust-rimmed holes in plating at best, entire limbs rotting off at worst.

It didn’t help matters that some mechs considered the blasted creatures cute.

“Oh my Primus, it’s adorable!” Helex murmured, peering out from behind a stack of crates in the Obliteration’s hold. “Look at those little legs! And those antennae!”

“You think THAT is adorable?” Thrust growled. “You’re as sick as the Helex we know!”

“Shut up, you’ll attract its attention!” Jetstorm griped.

“Rust-eaters are functionally deaf,” Tarn corrected. “They can pick up vibrations, but not compute them into actual sound.”

“Doesn’t make them any less dangerous,” Nickel pointed out.

The object of their attention seemed oblivious to their stares, and it went about rooting through an overturned crate and pulling out shell casings, chewing each one thoughtfully in its jaws. It stood as high as a turbofox at the shoulder, but its body was shorter and broader, with squat silver forelegs and thickly muscled back legs that gave it the appearance of an oversized frog. Its oval body was a mottled orange-red with a pale gray underbelly, and jet-black optical sensors gleamed out from above a set of hematite-colored mandibles. A set of thin silver antennae swept back from its head, arching over its body and trailing behind its rump like twin tails. 

Even as the mixed team of Vehicons, DHD, and DJD medic watched, the creature snipped apart a shell casing with surprising delicacy, revealing the potent mix of flammable powders inside. It lapped at the contents, giving a chirr of pleasure. It either didn’t notice, or noticed and simply didn’t care, that the floor around it was mottled with dark red spots that slowly spread like an organic bruise the longer it stayed in place.

“Seriously, how is that thing cute?” demanded Thrust. “It’s ugly and disgusting and it’ll make your digits fall off if you try to pet it.”

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Nickel pointed out. “And they actually do tame down pretty easily. The trick is the chemicals they secrete that accelerate rusting. You either keep the things caged or you treat ‘em with compounds to neutralize the rusting.”

“Don’t give Helex ideas!” Vos griped, throwing his hands in the air.

“Why not?” Helex protested. “If it works…”

“Nobody’s keepin’ the thing as a pet!” Jetstorm insisted. “Strika sent us down here to off the thing, and we’re gonna off the thing! Even if it means chasing it into an airlock and dumping it into space!”

“But… it’s cute…” Helex protested.

“Oh, for the love of…” Jetstorm didn’t finish the sentence and just cradles his face in a clawed hand. “Of all the Decepticons in the universe, we get saddled with the cutesy ones.”

“Let’s focus on the task at hand,” Tarn suggested. “This creature poses a danger to the ship. That in itself is reason enough to subdue and capture – or if necessary, terminate – it before it can deal damage. The question is how to do it without harm to anyone aboard.”

“Easy, shoot it,” Thrust insisted, earning a pained whimper from Helex.

“We are not shooting it,” Tarn retorted, narrowing his optics behind his mask. “From what I have read, these creatures have a nasty tendency to explode when shot. And I don’t think spreading rust-infection throughout a twenty-meter radius is a good idea.”

“Then club it or something,” Thrust huffed. “There’s more ways to kill a critter than shooting it.”

“You’re obsessed with killing things, aren’t you?” demanded Vos.

Thrust shrugged. “I’m a soldier. Not all of us can be pacifists, you know.”

Helex fiddled the fingers of his smaller hands together. “We could catch it. Not to keep it,” he hastily amended at Thrust’s irritated glower, “but to let it go later. Maybe at the next planet we stop at to resupply? I mean… it’s not hurting us or trying to chase us down. It’d be cruel to kill when it’s just minding its own business.”

Jetstorm chuckled. “You softie. You’re so adorable I think you’ve convinced me. And if no one’s got any better ideas…”

“Shoot it,” Thrust insisted. 

“Better ideas besides shooting it,” Jetstorm amended, “then I say we go ahead and catch the beastie. We’ve still got those lined crates from the rust-bullets somewhere.”

Tarn’s head jerked to the side to regard Jetstorm with disgust. “I thought rust-bullets were banned ordinance. Against all laws and conventions of warfare.”

Jetstorm snorted. “You mirror-verse ‘Cons are cute. When it comes to warfare, there’s no such thing as illegal or off-limits, pal.”

Tarn gave a shudder at that, then changed the subject. “The crates, then. Are they large enough to contain the creature?”

“Should be,” Jetstorm replied with a nod. “The trick is getting the critter inside.”

Nickel watched the creature chomp open another shell. “Why not use the oldest trick in the book?”

“You might wanna explain it, sweetspark,” Jetstorm told her with a chuckle. “I’m guessin’ your pals here haven’t read the book.”

“Oh hush,” she retorted. “It likes those incendiary shells, right? Just lay a trail of them into the crate and then shut the lid when it climbs inside. Seems easy enough.”

Tarn chuckled. “Brilliant, Nickel. A simple yet elegant solution.”

She wasn’t used to praise from her Tarn, and her face plates heated up before she could override her systems and dial the blush down. “Just get me some shells and that crate.”

“Strika’s gonna hate that we’re using her shells for this,” Thrust pointed out.

“Strika can choose between having a few less shells and having a wild rust-eater melting holes in her ship,” Nickel shot back. “Let’s get to work before that thing decides to wander somewhere important, like the barracks or the medical bay.”

***

Later Nickel would kick herself for not remembering that old adage about making plans – namely, the simpler the plan seemed at first glance, the more catastrophically it would go awry during the execution.

Tankorr had secured the crate for them, and Vos had laid a trail of the incendiary shells the rust-eater seemed to enjoy so much. From there it was just a matter of gently herding the creature toward the bait-trail, which they accomplished as delicately as they could. No one wanted to make it panic and dash off to some nook where it couldn’t be retrieved… or worse, try to climb over someone’s chassis in an effort to escape.

“There it goes,” Tarn murmured in relief as the rust-eater happened upon the bait at last. It gave a pleased chirr and cracked open a shell in its jaws, licking it clean of its volatile contents before moving on to the next one.

“How long’s this gonna take?” demanded Thrust.

“Be patient,” Tarn advised. “The less fuss we make in securing the rust-eater, the better.”

“Still think shooting it would mean less fuss,” the motorcycle-former huffed.

“You’ve got a shooting fetish, don’t you?” Jetstorm snickered. “I should remember that next time we’re in the berth together.”

“You shut up!” Thrust barked.

“Though you’re pretty good about shooting off other things…” Jetstorm went on.

“I said shut up!”

“Sssh!” Vos hissed. “Don’t spook the critter! And who wants to hear about your berth habits anyhow?”

“I don’t know, you’re pretty open about your berth habits,” Helex noted.

“Only with you guys,” Vos whined. “I don’t go blabbing them to complete strangers…”

“Enough,” Tarn ordered. “We can discuss everyone’s preferences in the berth when this is all over. Let’s get this creature under control.”

Welcome silence descended upon the group… for about thirty seconds. The rust-eater had just started sniffing the edges of the crate when Jetstorm spoke up again.

“If I’d have known about this side of you earlier, Thrust, I woulda brought a laser rifle to our little trysts,” he snickered. “Didn’t know that was the simplest way to get you off-”

“THAT’S IT!” Thrust bellowed, and gave the flying Vehicon a swat that knocked him into a stack of oil canisters. The racket of a lightweight-but-still-sizable chassis toppling dozens of metal cans was enough to make the rust-eater jump nearly three meters into the air, giving a buzzing shriek of terror before it scuttled toward its would-be captors as fast as its legs could carry it.

“Watch out!” Helex swept Tarn, Thrust, and Nickel aside with a sweep of one arm as the creature dashed past.

“Nice goin’, crotch-rocket!” Jetstorm snapped, extricating his oil-covered chassis from the pile of cans. “Now look what you’ve done! It’s gonna take me days to get this crud off!”

“You started it!” Thrust retorted.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Shut up, it’s getting away!” Nickel cut in, and activated her thrusters to take off after the rust-eater. If no one else was going to do anything about actually catching the animal, she would.

“Nickel, stop!” Tarn ordered. “It’s too dangerous!”

She ignored him and kept after the rust-eater, trailing it as it wove its way between stacks of supplies and stockpiled weaponry. Fraggit, why did she end up having to do all the dirty work wherever she went? Was she the only competent mech aboard this ship? Never mind that, there was also Strika, but then again she wasn’t here to help catch the beast, was she?

She finally cornered the critter in a dead end formed by two walls of crates. The rust-eater backed up until its rump touched the wall, shaking and growling in a panic. Nickel hovered just over the floor, trying to appear as small and harmless as possible in order to not spook her quarry.

“Easy,” she whispered, hands extended and her voice as soothing as she could make it. “I’m a friend, little guy… or at least I’m not a predator…”

The rust-eater snorted, as if not quite believing her, and growled again.

“Okay guys, any moment now,” she muttered under her fan cycles. Surely they’d be along any moment with that crate…

“BOO-YAH!” Jetstorm swooped down from above at that moment, doubtless aiming to flush the creature out of its hiding place. The rust-eater shrieked and bolted… straight for Nickel. 

She barely had time to process what was happening before the beast had bowled her over. She yowled and jammed a scalpel against the creature’s side, but the instrument snapped in two against its thick metallic hide. Claws raked at her plating, and razor-sharp mandibles clacked shut centimeters from her face. Gone was the placid creature they’d set out to trap – this one was wild with fear… and a wild creature of any sort was highly dangerous.

Her plating itched, and she realized that the longer this thing was on top of her, the more likely it would contaminate her with its rust-inducing secretions. She kicked her wheeled pedes against its underbelly, but it was too heavy to budge. Great… it wouldn’t be the sadism of the DJD that proved to be her death, but a stupid rust-eater that the DHD were too soft-sparked to terminate…

“BOO-YAH!” Jetstorm crowed again, and he dove at the rust-eater with claws bared and ready. The rust-eater shrieked again and leaped off Nickel, leaving yet another set of gouges in her plating from its rear claws. It scurried away from the Vehicon and minibot… straight into the crate in Helex’s lower set of arms.

“Got it!” he shouted.

“Boo-yah!” Jetstorm whooped for a third time, holding both sets of claws aloft and bobbing about in the air in some celebratory jig. “Who’s the mech? I’m the mech! Right here!”

“Can it, bolt-head,” Thrust snarled. “It’s your fault we had to chase the thing anyhow!”

“Is not!”

Nickel had just moved to push herself into a sitting-up position when a massive set of hands scooped her up. She tensed, ready to snap at whoever had grabbed her without permission, but a worried set of optics hovering over her chased the words away.

“Are you all right, Nickel?” Tarn’s voice was the same magnificent tone she’d heard for ages, but she had never heard it like this – taut with worry, suffused with an emotion that just might have been fear.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, and made to sit up, but a nudge from Tarn’s thumb pushed her back down.

“Don’t move,” he urged her. “The rust-eater has scratched you.”

_No slag, genius,_ she wanted to say, but she held her vocalizer.

“Helex, take care of the rust-eater,” Tarn ordered. “Vos, help Thrust and Jetstorm clean up. I’m taking Nickel to the repair bay to have her seen to. Nickel, hold as still as you can. I don’t know how badly you’ve been contaminated, but I don’t want to take chances. And tell me the instant you feel something go numb or start to burn, all right?”

And with that, he cupped his hands around her and hurried away. She caught a brief glimpse of Helex staring into the crate with unabashed joy in his optics – and just behind him, Jetstorm and Thrust arguing loudly with Vos vainly trying to mediate – before the DHD leader turned a corner and hid them from view.

She was quiet the whole way back to repair bay – Tarn’s words had done the impossible and struck her speechless. Her Tarn had never fussed over her this much. He showed concern when she was injured, but only in a clinical, calculating sort of way, as if her damages were an inconvenience to the team. And even then, he expected her to take care of herself, to see to her own repairs and maintenance. He had never worried about her, nor fussed over her as if she were an injured sparkling.

She should have been annoyed at this Tarn’s treatment of her… and yet she wasn’t. Somehow, having someone fuss over her and show genuine concern for her safety – not just the safety of the team’s medic, but Nickel’s safety – gave her a comfort that overrode any potential annoyance.

Perhaps Strika was right all along… not that she’d admit it. Not any more than she’d admit that perhaps she was developing a soft spot for these strange but benevolent copies of her DJD. Especially their leader.

***

Tarn wanted to stay beside Nickel while the Vehicons’ medic repaired her scratches and cleaned away the rust-eater’s contamination, but Scalpel wouldn’t have it – he was a stickler for rules and regulations, and would allow no non-medical personnel inside while he treated a patient. Instead he had to content himself with pacing the corridor outside, hands clasped behind his back, a tuneless melody cycling through his vocalizer in a worried hum. Now and again one of the DHD would stop by to encourage him to rest or refuel, but he dismissed their concerns. He wanted to be available once she was cleared to leave, not recharging or stuck in the common area.

He kept telling himself she would be fine. Plenty of mechs came into contact with rust-eaters and escaped with little more than a slight rash of rust spots on their armor. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the creature running her down and practically trampling her, of tiny hooked claws digging into her paint and leaving gouges… of the look of sheer shock and terror on her faceplate that she’d probably deny to her dying day…

“This is a picture.”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to regard Strika. The magenta-armored general had somehow approached as silently as a shadow, and stood blocking most of the corridor with her arms folded over her chestplate. Despite knowing her entirely-justified hatred for the DHD’s doppelgangers, he met her gaze with as much calm and cordiality as he could.

“Could you explain what you mean, General Strika?”

“Just that this is a pretty picture,” she repeated, her chuckle almost a growl. “Seeing the infamous Tarn fretting so over a mere minibot.”

Despite his self-control, he felt himself bristling at that. “She risked her life to capture a dangerous creature. And she has helped my comrades in the weeks she’s been with our crew. How could I not worry about her?”

Strika’s optic shutters narrowed. “I’m not as stupid as I look, Captain Tarn. I know that’s not all there is to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you as dense as your sadistic duplicate is cunning?” She chuckled again and shook her head. “Or are you simply blind to it? Blind as your Kaon’s other self, at least when it comes to matters of the spark, eh?”

“Ember,” he corrected automatically. “We have embers, not sparks.”

“Ember, spark… whatever you call it.” She shrugged her massive shoulders. “That is a triviality. What matters is that you have grown to care for that little medic, have you not?”

Tarn wasn’t sure if he should answer that, given Strika’s hatred for the Decepticon Justice Division and all connected with it. But all the same, it gave him pause. He wouldn’t lie – he had grown fond of Nickel in the time she had been with them. She was a spitfire, but far kinder than she led others to believe. And there was something about her spunk and furious nature that intrigued him, a bright fire that captivated him as much as his own music could ensnare an unwary mech in its web. And knowing she came from a wounded past… well, it made him want to care for her as much as she would let him. Which probably wasn’t much, at least at the moment.

It wasn’t quite love, he thought… not yet, at least. But she had won a place in his ember, and the thought of anything happening to her left him hollow and frightened inside. And the more he fought it, resisting getting attached to her so that her eventual departure would be easier on them both, the more she seemed to dig herself deeper into his ember.

Strika chuckled again. “For being so eloquent, your silence says much more than your words.”

Tarn sighed deeply. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me,” she replied. “I’m sure it is to your crew as well, though they probably keep their vocalizers muted out of respect. My troops will probably tease you mercilessly should they find out, but they’re so busy insulting or fragging one another that I doubt they even notice.”

He nodded. “Promise me something, General, if you will?”

“You aren’t in much of a position to beg a promise… but speak. I’ll see if I can oblige.”

“Don’t tell Nickel about this. Not yet. If anyone tells her, it should be me.”

Strika nodded. “Fair enough. That I can grant.” Her optics dimmed slightly, and she lowered her voice to a soft rumble. “And if you truly care about her, you will do all in your power to convince her to remain with you instead of going back to the Justice Division. They have been cruel to her, even if she won’t admit it, and letting her return to such abuse would shatter any spark, even one as strong as hers.”

Tarn frowned behind his mask. “She’s dead set on returning, however. I don’t know if I can convince…”

“You have to try. For her sake. Otherwise you don’t deserve her.”

On that note, Strika turned to go. But she paused and craned her neck to look him in the optic.

“And know this, Tarn. If you let her return, and I find that anything has happened to her at the Justice Division’s hands… I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself, pacifist or not.”

Tarn nodded. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

She snorted and strode off… just in time for Kaon to round the corner.

“Captain.” The pilot saluted. “I’ve just gotten word from the ship’s mechanics. The _Ember’s Hope_ will be ready to depart by tomorrow at 1200.”

“That is excellent news,” Tarn replied, feeling the knot in his ember ease slightly. “With any luck, Nickel will be cleared to go by then.”

Kaon raised an optic ridge. “You’re very worried about her, aren’t you, sir?”

Tarn sighed. “Is it obvious to everyone that I like her?”

“I think it’s rather adorable, sir,” Kaon said with a light laugh. “It’s been too long since you’ve taken on a lover of your own – and no, I don’t count comforting those in our care. I mean an actual relationship… perhaps even a conjux endura.”

Tarn snorted. “I highly doubt this will end with a conjux.”

“One never knows, sir. And besides, you’d make a sweet couple.”

Tarn was saved from having to come up with a retort by the medbay doors opening. Scalpel peered out, squinting his optic shutters behind his magnifying visor.

“Which one of you’s Tarn?” he demanded.

“That would be me… what’s wrong? Is she all right?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Scalpel replied. “Why’s everyone assume something’s wrong whenever I come outside?” The Vehicon grumbled and shook his head. “Got the rust contaminants cleaned outta her. I’m keepin’ her overnight for observation, but she should be fine. And whichever one of you is Tarn, she wants to see you. Privately.”


	11. Chapter 11

It was always something of a novel experience for Nickel to be the patient rather than the physician. True, often she had to be both – when you were the only mech on a ship with any medical training, it often meant doing your own repairs on top of everyone else’s. But being the one to have repairs done upon your person was always interesting… and more challenging than people would expect. Because often on those rare occasions where it fell on another mech to fix her, she found herself wanting to snap at him for “doing it wrong.”

At least Scalpel seemed to know what he was doing. He wasn’t a talkative sort – indeed, he worked on her with the impassive air of a mechanic tinkering with an ailing engine – but he was methodical and precise, scraping away the few spots of rust in her plating and treating the scratches with a chemical compound that would counteract the rust-eater’s plague. She appreciated his skill, and if his bedside manner was lacking… well, bedside manner never saved a mech’s life.

“That’s the last of it,” he said at last to no one in particular, and he dropped the tools into a tub of cleansing fluid and went to wipe off his hands. “I’m keeping you overnight for examination. Then you can go.” His tone brooked no argument.

“Fine by me.” She tapped lightly at one of the scratches in her chest. “I could use the rest.”

Scalpel snorted as he finished cleaning his clawed digits. “It’ll be a relief to have you gone, honestly.”

She raised an optic ridge. “Didn’t think I was THAT much of a pain in your aft.”

“It’s not you,” he insisted. “It’s your hulking red shadow out there. He’s been pacing the hallway for hours, wearing a hole in the floor panels. If I wasn’t concerned about further rust contamination I would kick you out now just to get him out of the way.”

 _Tarn…_ The DHD leader had worried about her, enough to get as close to her side as he could to wait for her recovery. This was an entirely new experience for her – to have someone fret over her, to care about her enough to stay close. Not just ensuring her safety as a valuable resource, but as a mechanism, an individual with a spark. Not since Prion’s destruction had she known this… and really, not even before then. She had been antisocial and something of a loner all her life, and the loss of her homeworld had only exacerbated it instead of causing it outright.

She knew she should feel grateful towards Tarn, but in all honesty she had no idea how to feel. This was completely new territory for her, and it left her feeling terrified.

 _Better to confront it head-on,_ part of her decided. _Talk to him. Get down to the bottom of this issue so you can obliterate it. Because how can you get back to the DJD if you’re tangled up with these losers…_

 _But do you really want to go back?_ another part of her countered. _To that Tarn, you’re just an asset. He sees you as property, not as a full member of the team. Slag, the only reason he wants you to bond with the team is to keep his band of lunatics in line. Here you’re respected, cared for… maybe even loved. Do you really want to give that up to go back to a bunch of certifiable sociopaths?_

“Nickel!”

She jerked and glared at Scalpel. “Don’t fraggin’ yell at me! I can think in peace without you harping on me.”

“I asked you a question,” he retorted. “Did you want me to shoo your shadow away? I can do that. Medics have SOME rank aboard this ship.”

That was more than she ever got aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny._ But she didn’t say so. “Actually… I’d like to talk to him, if I’m not contagious.”

Scalpel raised his visor to peer at her. “You’re not… but are you sure? Didn’t strike you as the type of mini who liked bigger mechs.”

“It’s not like that, grease-bucket,” she retorted. “Just let me talk to him, all right?”

Scalpel pondered that, then snapped his visor back down. “I’ll send him in. No ‘facing in my medbay, though. I have SOME standards.”

“I wasn’t going to frag him, you pervert. Who frags in a medbay anyhow?”

“Ask Jetstorm and Thrust,” Scalpel said with a resigned tilt of his head. “Those two have made it a game of fragging anywhere and everywhere on this ship. Name a horizontal surface or even a vertical one and they’ve probably banged against it.” And he ducked out, leaving Nickel with a mental image she could easily have gone the rest of her life without.

She didn’t have long to wait. Tarn strode into the repair bay, carrying himself with an easy grace that made her faceplates heat up. Primus… she’d never really let herself notice before, but Tarn was a handsome mechanism. Not sleek and streamlined, but powerful and broad… and yet that extra bulk didn’t make him clumsy at all. She had no idea what kind of face lurked beneath his mask – even she, the DJD medic, had never gotten a look under it – but the rest of the package, from voice to frame to kindly nature, was stunning.

 _Stop gawping,_ she told herself firmly. _He’s not optic candy. Just get this over with._

“How do you feel?” Tarn asked, sitting down beside her berth.

“A little sore,” she admitted. “Scratches still sting, and Scalpel had to carve off a few bits. I’ll be fine, though.”

“Having pieces carved off does not sound fine to me.” He took one of her hands between his fingers. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Positive.” She tapped one of the patches that dotted her chassis. “Honestly, you don’t have to fuss over me. I’ve survived a lot worse.”

“That doesn’t exactly reassure me.” He sighed softly. “Nickel… I am sorry we’ve put you in harm’s way.”

She shrugged. “Not like you sicced a rust-eater on me.”

“Still, I can’t help but feel responsible for this. If we hadn’t taken you from Bast…”

“I’d still be at the bottom of the swamp, rusting away a lot worse than this,” she reminded him. “What’s done is done, Tarn. Stop kicking yourself over it, okay?”

He gusted another sigh. “Very well… I will stop.” His optics softened as he toyed with her fingers, his touch gentle. “You had me… well, us very worried.”

She tilted her head to one side. “You can be honest with me, Tarn. You said ‘me’ there, not ‘us.’”

“The others do worry about you,” he insisted. “Poor Helex wanted to crawl into the airlock and eject himself into space. He thought your injuries were his fault for insisting we capture the beast alive instead of simply terminating it.”

At least he had the good grace to be sorry for his stupidity. “Yeah, but you’re not speaking for the others right now, are you?”

He started to protest, then gave a resigned chuckle. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you?”

“Given the weirdos I work with, I have to be.”

“Point.” He lowered her hand. “Nickel… I have grown fond of you. You have spirit, fire, courage… all traits I cannot help but admire. And yet your spark is kind beneath all that armor you have built around yourself. When the rust-eater ran you down, I was terrified that I had allowed you to be hurt. Far more terrified than I thought I would be.”

She said nothing, simply let his words sink into her processor.

“I know you have your spark set on returning to your comrades,” he went on. “But if there is anything I can do to dissuade you from going back...” He shook his head. “I promised I would deliver you safely to them, but I know how violent and cruel they can be. I don’t want to see you hurt again. I will take you back if you truly wish it, but the thought of giving you over to the Justice Division cuts me to the core.”

She shuttered her optics, letting his words circle in her CPU.

“By the Void that spawned us, say something.” Tarn’s voice was anguished now, despite all his attempts to keep his tone even, and that finally cut through the thin veneer of calm she was trying to project.

“Dammit, Tarn, I love you!” she blurted, opening her optics to glare at him. “It’s all your fault, you know – you waltzed into my life and plucked me out of the mud and had to be so fragging nice and charming and sweet… you and your pack of silly kind pacifists with all their quirks and malfunctions. I love you, and I fragging hate you for that!”

He pulled his hand back as if burned. “Nickel…”

“It was supposed to be so simple!” she went on, optics flashing. “I catch a ride with you soft-sparked copies, get picked up by my team, and that’s the end of it. But no, you had to be all charming and sweet and fragging NICE! You couldn’t just hate me or be scared of me for my connection to the DJD – you had to be nice… you had to treat me like a sentient mechanism and not just a tool… you had to treat me like I mattered…”

She had to shutter her optics at that. It was only a temporary measure for keeping cleanser from spilling out of her optical ducts, but it was better than nothing.

“How could we not treat you kindly?” Tarn said softly. “Nickel, every mechanism is precious. Even the most hard-embered and vicious mechanisms… even the smallest and most overlooked of them. Even you, my dear.” He touched her shoulder lightly with one finger. “I am sorry if we have made things complicated, but… it is not in our natures to be cruel, or even simply cold. You came to us through no fault of your own, and we responded to that as we always have. And if that has caused conflict for you… I apologize.”

Part of her wanted to squirm away from his touch. Touching had never led to anything good for her before – blows or worse, most of the time. But despite herself, she found herself leaning into the touch, resting her head against the warm metal of his hand. For such a huge mech, he was surprisingly gentle… or perhaps not so surprisingly, given his and his team’s functions.

“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured at last. “I want to stay with you… but I have to go back, too.”

“Whatever you decide, we shall support it,” he told her. “A hundred percent. Only promise me that, should the Justice Division try to hurt you again, you will leave. I won’t see you hurt anymore.”

“I can’t make promises,” she replied. “But… I’ll try.”

“Try as hard as you can, dear. You are worth far too much to be treated like scrap.” He nudged her cheek with a fingertip, catching an errant drop of cleanser, before pulling away. “Rest, dear… we move on to Worlorn tomorrow.”

She nodded, and watched him leave the med center. Her spark whirled in its chamber, her CPU in her cranial unit, both at war with one another. Two Tarns had lain claim to her now – one to her chassis and her life, the other to her spark. The question was which one she would choose… and with that choice, what her destiny would be.

***

Strika left her contact code with the _Ember’s Hope_ before it departed the _Obliteration_ for good, telling them to contact her should they ever need the Vehicons’ aid. Tarn seemed certain that they wouldn’t need it, however. They were fully refueled and repaired, and should be able to make the journey to Worlorn, and from there to Cybertron, without further mishap. They were greatly indebted to the General, and he told his crew that only hoped they could repay her someday.

And most shockingly of all, they had come away from the _Obliteration_ with a new crewmate. Of a sort.

“I just need to dose him with that chemical spray every morning and he’s perfectly harmless,” Helex assured Vos and Kaon, looking down at the rust-eater squirming in his smaller set of arms while patting it with the larger set. “Isn’t he cute? Hey Nickel, the DHD have a Pet now! Hopefully not as mean as your guys’…”

“For Pit’s sake, Helex,” Vos groaned. 

“You gonna name it?” asked Nickel from her perch on Tesarus’ arm, reaching over to scratch the rust-eater behind its whip-like antennae. Despite herself, she had to agree with the cleaner – it was charming in a so-ugly-it’s-adorable way.

“I dunno,” Helex replied. “I’m not good at coming up with fancy names for things. Maybe I’ll just call it the Pet. Like the Justice Division calls their pet.”

Nickel couldn’t think of anything that looked less like Kaon’s sleek, predatory Pet than the froggish rust-eater. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something. But Pet works until you do.”

Helex beamed and hugged it closer, like a sparkling clutching a brand-new turbohound puppy. Looking at his expression, it was hard to argue that his newfound pet was dangerous. And given what these poor mechs had been through over the vorns, she could hardly be so cold-sparked as to take it from him.

“Hey Tesarus, when you’re done ogling the new Pet, can you do me a favor and put me down?”

“Oh, sorry.” He stooped to set her down. “So we’re almost to Worlorn now. You must be really excited to be almost home.”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm behind that word. But she wouldn’t let herself dwell on too long, or she’d start to have doubts. “What are you guys going to do after you drop me off?”

“Oh, probably go to Cybertron, see if the leaders there need us,” Vos replied. “Though seeing as things are flipped around here, I’m gonna guess we need to see Optimus Prime about that and not Megatron, huh?”

She raised an optic ridge. “Actually, the Megatron here has switched sides. He’s an Autobot now.”

“What?!” Vos recoiled, optics bright. “No fragging way!”

“Please don’t swear,” Tesarus reminded him.

“I think this situation calls for swearing, Tess,” Vos retorted. “You’re joking, right?”

“I don’t joke about these things,” Nickel replied. “And besides, the leader of Cybertron is currently Starscream.”

Vos spluttered at that, but it was Helex who cut in. “Okay, now THAT has to be a joke. Or is he an Autobot too?”

“Still Decepticon. Though there’s a truce in place, or at least there’s supposed to be one, and factions don’t mean what they used to anymore… but it’s complicated.”

“It sounds like it,” Tesarus noted. “And here I thought our universe was messed up.”

“Think Starscream’ll take us on?” asked Vos. “He was always a reasonable sort in our universe. Though I’m going to guess he’s not that way here?”

“Not exactly.” She debated being completely honest with them, but decided it wasn’t worth crushing their spirits even more. “You know, you could always go back to Strika. She’d take you on.”

“I dunno,” Helex replied. “Didn’t the Justice Division kill her bondmate? I wouldn’t want her to have to look at us every day and have that reminder of it.”

Nickel started at that. “Helex, that’s… incredibly sweet of you to think like that.”

“It’s just the truth,” he replied with a four-armed shrug that made the rust-eager gurgle and squirm. “We’re meant to help people, not remind them of terrible things, right?”

“I wouldn’t mind going back,” Vos countered. “The Vehicons were a bit rough around the edges, but they meant well and treated us good, and Jetstorm’s a nice…” His voice trailed off.

Nickel couldn’t help a teasing smirk. “A nice what? Tell us more, Vos.”

“Nothing,” he retorted. “Not gonna say a thing.”

“You don’t have to,” Helex replied, covering a giggle with one of his larger hands. “I know perfectly well what you meant. I’m the one that opened a closet to find you in a rather elaborate threesome with Jetstorm and Thrust, remember?”

“Hey, shut up!” Vos retorted. “Thrust was having a bad day and Jetstorm and I decided to help him feel better! What’s the harm in that?”

“No harm,” Helex laughed, “but it was a shock to see. Pit, I had no idea you were THAT flexible.”

“Given the shapes of some of those Vehicons, you have to be flexible to interface with them,” Tesarus added. “Though that Strika is attractive. If she would allow it…”

“Don’t start crushing on the General,” Kaon advised as he walked in. “She was bonded, you might recall. I doubt she’d be willing to take on another lover after that, however briefly.”

Nickel shrugged. “You’d be surprised. She and Obsidian were devoted to one another, from what I heard, but they weren’t monogamous. They felt keeping a leash on each other, so to speak, would just corrode their relationship.”

“Still, we do respect the wishes of others,” Kaon replied. “And at any rate, I doubt we’ll see her again.” His gaze settled on Nickel. “Tarn wishes to see you, if you have a moment.”

Her spark contracted in its chamber. “Is he all right?”

“He’s suffering a slight malfunction,” Kaon replied. “It’s nothing dangerous, but he hoped you could attend to it before it became a larger problem.”

She nodded. “I’d better take care of it, then. What are you guys gonna do without a medic on board, I wonder. Let yourselves fall apart?”

“We would never!” Vos protested.

“You were doing just that when I found you,” Nickel countered. “Seriously, it wasn’t just Kaon’s optics and Vos’s voice and Helex’s systems – you were all so full of viruses and glitches when I got here it’s a wonder you were still functioning.”

“It’s not like we do it on purpose,” Tesarus protested. “We just… get so busy taking care of others that… we forget to take care of ourselves, I guess.”

That sounded like them. Then she had to chuckle a little. Only a few months with these guys and she was already assuming she knew them as well as her own DJD. Which wasn’t too far off the mark, she supposed – despite living with the Justice Division for so long, they were private individuals who shared little personal information besides their various perversions and psychoses. 

“See you guys in a bit,” she told them, and headed off for the Captain’s quarters. 

“Take whatever time you need,” Kaon replied with a soft smile. Nickel wondered what the frag he meant by that, then decided it didn’t matter.

The door to Tarn’s quarters stood ajar, and she approached cautiously and kept her audials tuned for any unusual noises. Tarn might be alone in there, but after blundering in on one of Vos and Kaon’s trysts in the past, she wasn’t going to take chances. There were plenty of ways for a mech to indulge in pleasure without a partner handy, after all…

“Come in,” Tarn invited. “Kaon told me to expect you.”

Nickel couldn’t suppress a shiver at that tone. Was it her imagination, or was his voice lower than normal, richer and smoother? She braced herself and walked in. If this was some trick cooked up between Tarn and Kaon to seduce her into staying…

Tarn sat on the edge of a large berth in a curiously spartan room, fingers laced together and elbows resting on his knees. Nickel chanced a look around before approaching him. Not much in the way of decoration save a framed holoprint of a golden-plated mech that looked startlingly like Straxus, illuminated by a single spotlight and arms spread like an opera singer delivering a powerful solo. A shelf laden with datapads and information chips stood on one side of the berth, while a small but high-quality sound system occupied a table on the other.

“I don’t need much besides my music and my books,” he explained. “Well, and my autographed image of the Bard of Darkmount. Not only can he write an epic opera, but he can perform it magnificently as well.”

Nickel snorted. “Still a poetry fan. Though I hope you have better taste than the Tarn I know.”

“Perhaps I’ll let you sample some of it and judge for yourself,” he suggested. “But down to the reason I wanted you here.” He tapped the side of his mask. “I seem to have a malfunction in my left optic. It keeps flickering between the normal spectrum and the infrared. A reboot isn’t fixing the issue.”

“Sounds like a wiring issue.” She activated her thrusters and jetted up to stand on the berth beside him. “I’m probably gonna have to pull the optic out to do this. You all right with that or should I shut you down for this?”

“I will be fine, but thank you for the warning. May I lay down for the procedure?”

“That’ll work.”

He lowered himself to the berth, relaxing as she made her way up to the side of his head. Pulling a few tools from their niches on her shoulders, she set to work.

Almost immediately she encountered a problem. “Tarn, I’m gonna need you to remove the mask. Your optics are too deep-set for me to remove one with the mask still on.”

She fully expected him to protest, or even forbid her from continuing with the procedure. Her Tarn had refused to ever remove his mask for any reason, and the one time she had attempted to pry it off to see to an injury he had swatted her across the room out of sheer reflex. She had never asked the reason behind it, figuring that he would tell her if he deemed it important enough.

But this Tarn only hesitated a moment before gripping the bottom edge of the mask and lifting it slowly upward. Her fans quickened in anticipation, optics locked on the face coming into view.

It was a face she didn’t recognize – she’d half-expected some wanted criminal or legendary hero beneath the mask, but the strong, well-set features gleaming in the room’s lights were unknown to her. He was handsome – shockingly so – but the lower half of his face was marred by a fine network of weld marks, as if his lower jaw had been shattered in an accident and roughly patched together. 

She must have stared a moment too long, because a resigned chuckle rose from his vocalizer. “Am I that ugly, Nickel?”

“No,” she said quickly. “You’re not. Far from it.” Her faceplates flamed with heat, and she shook herself and yanked another tool free. “Lock your shutters open. This is gonna take some time, and I don’t want you mucking it up by blinking in the middle of it.”

He chuckled again but complied as she set to work, gently prying the optic free of its housing to get at the wiring behind it. She worked precisely, careful but quick, not wanting to linger any longer than necessary. Every so often she stole a glance at that face again, trying to memorize its features before it vanished again, but then returned to her work before Tarn could catch on.

Or so she hoped until he spoke up again. “You can look, you know. I won’t mind.”

“If you don’t mind someone looking, why do you wear the mask?” She regretted the question immediately, but grimly kept working anyhow. No taking it back now…

“Because working with traumatized mechs is much easier when they’re not unsettled by my scars,” he replied. “I’ve never had the opportunity to have them smoothed out, so the mask was an easier solution. Besides…” Here he smirked a little. “I’ve had lovers who say they admire a mech with a few rakish scars. Perfection is boring, they tell me.”

“Stuck-up,” she told him, though she couldn’t help a laugh of her own. “I gotta admit… you don’t look half-bad even with ‘em. Scars just mean you’re a survivor, after all.”

Tarn looked thoughtful at that turn of phrase, but said nothing.

Finally she clicked the optic back into its housing. “That should do it. Reboot it one more time and see if that fixes it.”

His shutters snicked closed, obscuring the sapphire lens for a moment. When he opened his optics again they had dimmed, but soon flickered back to life.

“I think that did it,” he said at last.

“Good.” She slapped his shoulder good-naturedly. “If it bothers you again before Worlorn, let me know, all right? Won’t have the chance to fix you after…”

He placed a fingertip to her lips. Startled, she let her voice trail off, not taking her optics from his face. There was an expression on his faceplates that she had never seen directed at her before – a tenderness mingled with a nervous anticipation that seemed out of place for such a charismatic leader.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. “Nickel… we will miss you when you go. No… not just we. _I_ will miss you when you go.”

She was so stunned by that admission that she couldn’t keep the words back. “I’ll miss you too. All of you… but especially you.”

His finger traced her lip plates with infinite gentleness, then moved to rub up and down her spinal strut. Something in her seemed to melt at his touch, arching into his caress like an eletrocat… not resisting as he lifted his head to brush his lip plates against the top of her helm…

Her CPU jolted, as if just now realizing what was going on. Tarn was touching her… kissing her… not the Tarn she was beholden to, but this new Tarn, this strange yet kindly Tarn who had professed his love to her, who had offered her a place with them no questions asked…

She ducked and writhed away from his lips and hand. “I’ve got to go.”

He jerked back, his expression stricken. “Nickel, I meant no harm-”

“I’ve got to go,” she repeated, scooping up her tools and dropping off the edge of the berth.

“Nickel, wait-”

She didn’t wait for his reply, just took off at a run. She didn’t slacken her pace until she was back in her own quarters, where she promptly dropped her tools on the floor and huddled there in a ball, keening and burying her face in her hands.

_Dammit, Nickel! Dammit, dammit, dammit! How could you let yourself forget? This isn’t your Tarn, he will never be your Tarn, you belong to the Justice Division and no one else! Don’t lose your spark to him when you know you can never have it…_

But it was too late. She loved him. He loved her. And despite her duty to the Justice Division, some part of her would always belong to the Tarn of the DHD. If she returned to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ now, it would tear her apart.

Yet if she remained here, the Tarn who had lain claim to her would hunt her across the cosmos, and probably slaughter them all. No matter which path she chose, it would lead only to ruin.

For the first time in vorns, she allowed herself to weep. Worlorn was mere hours away, and with it would come the shattering of her life, one way or another.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaand we have smut. Romantic smut but smut nonetheless. If you have issues with size differences in sex scenes, proceed with caution...

“Nickel, may I come in?”

Nickel’s first instinct was to yell out a “no,” maybe even a “frag no.” She didn’t want anyone to come in right now… and the last mech she wanted to see in her quarters was Tarn. He’d just make it all the harder for her to come to a reasonable decision, one unmuddied by personal feelings…

“Nickel, please.” Tarn’s voice, so gorgeously full of warmth and color, was clouded with worry. “If I have said or done something to offend you, I apologize… but I just want to know that you are all right. Or if not all right, at least that you will be.”

She groaned and buried her face in the foam padding of the berth. _Go away!_ she thought as hard as she could, though somehow she couldn’t bring herself to yell it aloud. _Don’t you see you’re just making it worse?_

“If… if this is about the kiss… then I’m sorry.” The pain in his voice stabbed into her spark. “I am not good at concealing my feelings. I just wanted you to know that I… that someone… cared about you, before you left. Because I cannot bear the thought of you going back to mechs who see you as a commodity, not without assuring you that someone loves you and cares about your welfare.”

She hissed and sat up in her berth. If he wasn’t going to leave her alone, might as well bring him inside so she could tell him off in person.

“Get your aft in here,” she ordered.

The door slid open, and he ducked to enter. Her pump stuttered in her chest at the sight of his optics -- deep sapphire blue, sparkling with emotion as he carefully sat down on the edge of her berth.

“You aren’t making this any easier,” she informed him. Somehow she couldn’t force any venom into the words, and they came out soft with a quiet agony.

“I know… and I am very sorry for that.” He looked down at his hands. “I should never have kissed you. But during your time with us I have grown to love you, and I wanted to express that. As I said, you should know you are worthy of love, even if you are returning to the Justice Division. Because I highly doubt any of them will show you the kind of love you deserve.”

“I don’t doubt,” she retorted. “I fragging know. None of them are capable of love. Not even the other Tarn, who insists I bond with his entire slagging team.”

This Tarn’s optics flashed at that. “You never told me of this.”

“Never came up until now.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her arms on them with a sigh. “It was his idea. He thought if all of them bonded to someone halfway together mentally, he could keep the team together and stabilize some of their crazier impulses.”

Tarn shuttered his optics for a few moments, obviously trying to process what he had just heard. “And did he ever ask what you thought about this?”

“Technically he left the final decision up to me,” she admitted. “But we both knew the only answer was yes. I had no choice -- him asking me was just a pretty formality. We were to bond the night you plucked me out of the swamp.”

“That’s insane,” Tarn insisted, shaking his head. “How could he insist on something like that? And why would you not protest it with every speck of energy? Bonding with those psychopaths would tear even the strongest mech or femme apart… or it would warp you into becoming one of them.”

She hadn’t thought about that last possibility, and she shuddered. “I didn’t have a choice. Tarn… I owe them my life. They saved me… they gave me a reason to keep living after my homeworld was wiped out. Without them, I’m nothing. I… I had to repay them somehow.”

Tarn shook his head. “No. You owe them nothing, Nickel. You have been their servant for vorns -- mending their wounds, tending to their maintenance, even cleaning them up. They may have saved your life… but in return they’ve done nothing but take from you. Taking far more than you ever offered. And don’t look so surprised -- I know you must have been raped by them. By Vos, if by no one else.”

To hear him say it so bluntly stung, and she shivered again. “I didn’t have a choice,” she insisted, her voice so soft even she could hardly hear it. “Vos insisted they save me… and even if he only wanted me around as a plaything, I still owed him my life. I couldn’t deny him anything.”

Tarn gazed at her, his optics full of a sorrow so great that it was as if he knew exactly what kind of pain she had suffered. “Nickel… you may have owed them a debt. But you have paid that debt back a hundredfold by this point. And even if he rescued you, Vos had NO right to take you in that fashion. Interfacing should not be the price for saving another’s life, especially if it’s against the other party’s will. What he did to you was wrong, pure and simple.”

Her optics burned with built-up cleanser. He was right, damn it… perfectly right. She had given everything she was and had to the DJD, and they had repaid her with pain and brutality. And as if that weren’t enough, their Tarn was demanding that she give up her very identity to the Division, her very spark, simply so he would have an easier time controlling his team.

“Don’t go back,” Tarn urged. “I beg of you. It will destroy you. And you are too precious to lose.”

“I have to go,” she insisted, gritting her dental plates to hold back a sob. “The DJD won’t stop until they’ve hunted me down. And if they do… they’ll kill all five of you. You won’t stand a chance.”

“We have lived with being fugitives and refugees for most of our lives,” Tarn replied. “Being hunted will be nothing new. And perhaps once we reach Cybertron, we can find sanctuary there. Surely they wouldn’t dare hunt for us there.”

“You’d be surprised,” she retorted, but something in her spark eased slightly at that. Cybertron wasn't exactly a sanctuary world, but the Justice Division were wanted mechs there. If they could make it that far, then they’d at least be far safer than they were now. 

“I don’t want to force you to stay with us against your will,” Tarn told her. “That would make me no better than the Tarn you know. But I ask -- nay, I beg you -- to reconsider your decision. You have other options, no matter what the Justice Division has told you.”

She took a deep intake of air and let it out slowly. “I’m not used to people caring about me. Or wanting to protect me.”

“Then let me give you a chance to grow accustomed to it.”

She gazed up at the crimson mask and the blue optics gleaming through it. As she watched Tarn hooked his thumb beneath the lower edge and slowly peeled it back, revealing his broken-jawed face again. His expression was so full of emotion -- fear, anger, pain, sympathy, tenderness -- that she wasn’t sure just how they could all fit in a single arrangement of facial features. Never had anyone looked at her in quite that fashion -- worried for her, angry and grieving on her behalf, caring for her…

“Nickel…” He seemed about to say something else, but her hand on his silenced him.

“If I stay,” she murmured, “you have to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he replied quickly -- a little too quickly, but she decided not to tell him off for being too trusting right now.

“When we get to Worlorn, pick up some weapons,” she ordered. “And learn how to use them, and teach your team how to use them too. I don’t care if you’re pacifists, we’re going to have some incredibly dangerous mechs on our trail and you need to learn how to protect yourselves.” She smirked a little. “And me.”

Tarn, bless his ember, didn’t even hesitate. “I promise, Nickel.”

 _Why do I feel like I just signed my own death warrant?_ Nickel thought. She had just done something irrevocable -- with a few words, a simple promise, she had earned herself a spot on the List. The Tarn she had served for so long would hunt her down until the end of her days, and would repay her treason against the Justice Division with the longest and most painful death he and his gang of mad-mechs could concoct.

Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to feel fear. All she felt was relief, a great lifting of her spark as if a clamp on her internals had been loosened. The DJD had made her their prisoner when they had saved her life; the DHD had not only saved her but had given her freedom. Perhaps a freedom on the run, but freedom nonetheless.

A soft touch on her back plates registered… Tarn, using two fingers to gently stroke her back. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded, shuttering her optics and gently leaning back into his touch. “Keep doing that. Feels nice.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I know your past… I know you haven’t liked to be touched in the past. I don’t want to bring back memories.”

She shook her head. “If it’s you, it’s okay. Just be gentle. Please.”

Tarn nodded, and she felt herself gathered up in his hands and lifted. She lay back as he stroked her back, her shoulders, her helm with the tips of his digits, as if intent on memorizing every seam and joint in her armor. He was so gentle… perhaps a little too gentle, for his touch tickled over some areas.

“I won’t break, you know.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice a low thrum that sent a shiver of desire through her neural net. “You are very strong. But I want to show you what pleasure feels like. If I may.”

She hesitated a moment, the memory of the DJD’s Vos looming over her haunting the edges of her CPU… but she pushed it away. This was Tarn… HER Tarn, not the sadistic violet mech she was coming to see as the horrific copy. He would never hurt her. 

“Show me,” she whispered.

Tarn smiled, and he lifted her to his lips. He kissed her helm tenderly, then continued to plant soft, gentle kisses up and down her body. She could feel the warmth of his fans sliding over her plating, a sensation that was curiously pleasant. A warm, tingling delight filled her chassis and made her systems thrum, answered by a deep rumble from Tarn’s engines.

“I love you,” she murmured, aiming a kiss at his olfactory sensor.

“And I you,” he purred. “You are very dear to me, Nickel… and I swear I will protect you with all my ember.”

She gave a little snort. “You’re not a warrior yet. From the look of things I’ll have to protect you- oh slag.” The last two words were gasped out as he rested a finger against her panel, rubbing the rapidly warming metal with infinite care.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No… but don’t you slagging stop now.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” he rumbled.

A prickling heat filled her chassis as he massaged her panel, gently but insistently, continuing to kiss her chest and helm. She squirmed beneath him, trying to press against his digits, and growled in frustration when he chuckled and used the fingers of his free hand to hold her still.

“Why such a rush?” he murmured. “We’re in no hurry.”

“Fraggit, I haven’t properly overloaded in over ten vorns,” she snarled. “You might not be in a hurry, but I am.”

He laughed softly. “I don’t like to rush an overload, darling. It’s so much better for the recipient if I take my time.” He tapped her panel lightly. “If you want to speed up just a little, though, you can open this for me.”

The panel slid open almost before she was aware she had done it. She felt hot energon flood to her face plates in a blush as she lay exposed before him, her valve already wet and swollen with desire… a desire she hadn’t felt in far too long…

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and folded a thumb over her valve to caress it. “My dear Nickel…”

She felt a cry wrench itself free from her vocalizer as he stroked her, his touch infinitely gentle. How the frag was he doing this, anyhow… he was huge, strong enough to tear a Seeker apart with his bare hands, but somehow he knew precisely how much pressure to touch her with…

Tarn kissed her cheek one more time, then gave a daring little grin and slid his glossa out to slide up her neck and the side of her face.

“Eww,” she groaned, her sound of mock-disgust spoiled by a sudden moan of pleasure as he dragged his thumb back over her valve. “Not all ladies… like… to be licked… you know…”

“Perhaps not,” he confessed, “but if you want me to stop, just say the word…”

“Fraggit, don’t you dare stop,” she demanded. “I just hope you keep up with your oral hygiene unlike some mechs I could -- oh Primus -- mention…”

Tarn chuckled and gave her another soft lick, glossa gliding up her abdomen and chest. Then he pulled his thumb away from her valve and lowered his mouth to it.

She bucked and wailed, ecstasy flooding her sensory net as his gloss and lips caressed her. He supported her in his hands, holding her to his mouth as he pleasured her, optics shuttered and engines growling with barely suppressed lust. Primus, but for such a powerful mech he knew just how to service a much smaller mechanism. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d boasted that several weeks ago… had it really been only weeks…

Her hips moved of their own accord, setting a rhythm that Tarn matched with thrusts of his glossa. She gripped his helm for balance, air cycling through her vents with heavy panting, engine revving so hard its roar was nearly a scream. Tarn answered with a rumble of his own engine and a soft groan against her most sensitive bits that nearly sent her into overload right there.

“Tarn… oh Pit, right there… that’s it… frag, oh frag, Tarn…” She couldn’t seem to shut her vocalizer off -- it continued to babble nonsense or just utter noises of pleasure that were far too loud for her liking. Most of her didn’t care, but part of her knew that Helex could probably hear them from the next room over...

Tarn disengaged from her valve for a brief moment. “I love you, Nickel.”

“You… said that already…” she gasped.

“And I still mean it.” And he pressed his mouth against her one more time, the tip of his glossa finding her most sensitive node within her valve and sliding against it.

Overload wracked her, tearing through her like a tidal wave, making every sensor and system sing with ecstasy. She bucked and squirmed in his grip, her cry ringing through the room, her limbs shaking as she clung to him. Tarn continued to stroke his glossa over her valve, wringing as much pleasure from her as possible, drawing out the moment for what seemed like an eternity.

When her systems righted themselves again after that blistering climax, she found herself cradled in Tarn’s arms as if she were a youngling. Her valve throbbed, her torso and the insides of her thighs were covered in oral lubricant, and her internal temperatures were still uncomfortably high… but she felt content, sated, in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was more than just a physical satisfaction -- she felt it in her spark, a feeling of joy and of comfort that she hadn’t known since her home colony had been destroyed.

Tarn lightly stroked her helm with a fingertip. “How do you feel, dear?”

“Mmmm… like I could stay here all night.” She nestled in close to his chest plate. “Thank you… for showing me it could be good.”

He nodded, continuing to caress her. “Acts like this should be pleasurable for both parties. It should never be forced onto one… and I am appalled that you were mistreated so badly. It will never happen to you again. I swear it.”

“You know what’s funny?” She nuzzled into his touch. “I believe you. I didn’t trust you slaggers when I first got here, but now… now I’d trust you with my life. With my spark.”

He smiled down at her. “I am honored, dear Nickel.”

She patted his chest, then frowned at the heat radiating from his armor. “What about you, though? We’ve got to take care of you, you haven’t overloaded yet.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, Nickel. Tonight was about you.”

“None of that slag, as romantic as it is,” she ordered. “A suppressed overload can cause all kinds of damages. If you want to be able to get it up again in your life, we take care of this. Soon.”

He laughed softly. “You don’t mince words, do you?” He kissed her helm and laid her carefully on the berth. “But I don’t want to spike you. Not tonight… not yet. I’ll go to my quarters and take care of it myself.”

She snorted. “You’re not the only mech on this ship who knows how to get other mechs off. Or even mechs who are way different sizes. I’ve had to help Tesarus and Helex overload before, and managed it without them spiking me.”

He grimaced at that. “I don’t want you to see it as a chore, though.”

She shook her head. “With you, Tarn, it wouldn’t be a chore.” 

He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her again before slipping the mask back on. “Another time. But thank you for thinking of me. We must get together and do this again sometime.”

She laughed and flopped back onto the berth. “I’m gonna rest. You go think good thoughts of me while you jerk off, all right?”

His laughter was like music to her audials as he left the room, his gait a little awkward from the charge built up in his equipment. She really should have insisted he stay so she relieve that pent-up energy for him, but he was a stubborn one. Almost as stubborn as she was.

 _You two’ll make quite the pair,_ that little nagging voice noted, and for once it actually didn’t seem quite so obnoxious. Indeed, the tension that had been slowly building ever since she’d realized she was having feelings for Tarn had eased. It wasn’t gone entirely -- they were all fugitives now, and she’d pretty much sentenced the six of them to a lifetime of constantly looking over their shoulders -- but a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and for the first time in ages she felt… happy.

She was free. Free from her obligations to the DJD, free from the threat of being spark-bonded to a pack of lunatics. Free to pursue her own fate. Or to find it in the arms of a most unlikely pacifist who just happened to wear the mask of one of the deadliest Decepticons in the universe.

Those thoughts should have been enough to keep her awake, giddy with excitement… but she was too exhausted from that intense overload to keep her optic shutters open for long. At least, she mused as she slipped offline, her dreams would be pleasant.

***

Tarn emerged from a post-overload shower in the communal washracks and entered the _Ember’s Hope’s_ common room to find four smug faces looking at him. He did his best to ignore them and went to the energon dispenser to retrieve a cube. He was Captain; it was his duty to keep a straight face, no matter what kind of embarrassment they threw his way. Even if he had just recently thrown them some prime fodder for embarrassing him.

“There’s been an update to our situation,” he said calmly, turning to face the others with cube in hand.

“I’ll say,” Vos giggled. “So how was it?”

Tarn sighed. It wasn’t any use hiding it -- Nickel’s cries could have roused Unicron from his eternal slumber. “That’s none of your business.”

“Sure sounded like she was enjoying it,” Helex laughed, looking up from polishing the Pet’s antennae with a soft cloth. “You’ve still got the magic touch with the femmes, it seems.”

“She’s still got a filthy vocalizer, though,” Tesarus huffed. “But I guess in the heat of passion it can be forgiven…”

“If we’re done gossiping about my tryst, I can continue,” Tarn said a little more crisply than he’d intended. He turned to Kaon. “Anything you would like to add?”

The pilot simply smiled, golden optics gleaming with genuine pleasure rather than teasing humor. “I’m happy for you, Tarn. It’s been a long time since you’ve found someone that makes you happy. And while she’s not the partner we expected you to find, I think she’s perfect for you.”

Tarn’s face heated up beneath the mask. “Th-thank you, Kaon.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.” He nodded. “Now you mentioned an update. What was it?”

Tarn settled down into a chair. “Nickel has informed me that she has no intention of returning to the Decepticon Justice Division. Thus, when we stop at Worlorn to resupply we will not be dropping her off. She will accompany us as we move on to Cybertron.”

Vos whooped happily, nearly clobbering the Pet in his enthusiasm. The rust-eater gurgled in irritation.

“We will need to pick up weaponry at Worlorn,” Tarn went on. “Nickel fears the Justice Division will have even more cause to hunt us now, and we need to be prepared.”

“But none of us have shot a gun in our lives, sir,” Tesarus protested.

“Then it’s time we learned,” Tarn replied. “I don’t like it any more than the rest of you do, but it’s necessary. For our protection, and for Nickel’s.”

The others exchanged reluctant glances, but nodded.

“So we officially have a medic now,” Helex noted, rubbing the cloth down the Pet’s back. “You know, if she’s staying on permanently, we can get her a room that’s a little more suited to her size. There’s that storage closet that we can refit to be her quarters, and maybe we can track down a minibot-sized bed on Worlorn.”

“And maybe some extra tools,” Vos added. “I dunno how she keeps from losing her scalpels and picks with how often she throws ‘em at mechs that annoy her.”

“Mostly you,” Kaon noted wryly.

“Hey,” Vos growled, glaring.

“You know,” Tesarus said thoughtfully, “I have been wondering something. We have doubles in this universe… why didn’t we have a Nickel back in ours?”

Tarn hadn’t thought of that, but now that Tesarus had brought it up… “Fascinating. I’m sure she exists, we just never crossed paths with her. I can only imagine what she might have been like, though…”


	13. Chapter 13

The stop on Worlorn had been brief and fraught with apprehension. Vos and Kaon had been the only ones to leave the _Ember’s Hope_ , and only after heavily disguising themselves beneath the holoforms of generic-looking neutrals. Vos had gone after energon, medical supplies, and consumables for Tesarus’ kitchen, with a brief detour to snag a crate of novels and history datapads that had earned him a lecture from Tarn on carelessness. Said lecture was only a half-hearted one, though, as everyone aboard the _Hope_ had long gotten tired of their well-worn selection of reading material, and the new books would be quite welcome.

Nickel had given Kaon the name of a weapons dealer that had a low-level place on the List, figuring that someone in the luckless position of quarry of the DJD would be more likely to help them. She guessed right -- Rattletrap had been ecstatic to provide the masseuse with weaponry at a reasonable price, and told him to “give ‘em Pit from me” if they ever came across Tarn and company. She only hoped that the guns were a precaution only, and they wouldn’t have to make good on that promise.

Nickel had nearly worried herself sick the whole time they were docked on Worlorn, and couldn’t make herself relax until they had left the star system. Every moment they spent here, after all, was another moment the DJD could close in on them. Never mind that as far as she knew they had left no trace of their visit to the planet -- the other Tarn was a clever one, and had his ways…

“Everything will be all right,” Tarn assured her, breaking her out of her dark thoughts with a touch to her shoulder.

“I sure hope so,” she replied. “But we’re playing a dangerous game here. And if we lose… well, we just can’t lose.”

Tarn’s gaze drifted toward the other four members of his team, and he gave a long-suffering sigh. “I think at this point, we’re more likely to accidentally shoot ourselves or each other than fall victim to the Justice Division.”

“Why do you think I insisted on being here while you practiced?” Nickel retorted. “Someone’s got to patch you idiots up afterwards.”

The DHD were gathered in a large chamber aboard the _Hope_ that normally served as a recreation room, or a gathering place if they happened to have a good number of visitors or passengers. Today it had been refitted as a makeshift shooting range, with a row of targets drawn on the far wall and set up at various distances. They took to practicing in pairs, the others cleaning and reloading guns between shots while the chosen two tried their luck.

At this point, Nickel thought, it might be safer to stand in front of their guns than behind them. Because at the moment nobody could seem to land a shot. Almost all the targets were unmarked, and those that did have holes seared into them were extraordinarily lucky misses. Even as she watched Vos squeezed off a round at a standing target, only for it to shriek past with half a meter to spare and hit one of the silhouettes on the wall square in the chest.

“I meant to do that!” Vos insisted.

“Sure you did,” Helex muttered. He looked a comical sight with a heavy rifle in his upper set of hands and a pistol in the lower, but if that made him feel safer Nickel figured she wouldn’t judge.

“Oh, I’d like to see you do better,” Vos retorted.

“Enough, you two,” Tarn chided. “Tesarus, Kaon, you’re up. Vos, Helex, help me reload energy packs.”

Vos grumbled and sat down on an ammo crate next to Nickel. “This is stupid. We’re better off NOT having guns if this is the best we can do with ‘em.”

“You don’t just become an expert overnight at these things,” Tesarus informed him as he picked up Helex’s rifle. “It takes practice. Sometimes a great deal of it. You don’t think I became a chef straight off the assembly line, do you?”

“Yeah, but you had vorns to become one,” Vos informed him. “We’re kind of on a time crunch here.”

Kaon stooped down and picked up, not a gun, but a bundle of throwing knives. Nickel watched curiously. She had wondered just why Kaon had included those among the more traditional guns he’d purchased -- plenty of Cybertronians carried a blade just in case they found themselves in close-quarters combat, but throwing knives were rare. Perhaps they’d simply caught his optic, or perhaps he had some kind of hidden skill she didn’t know about…

Her mental question was answered when he drew one and, with a flick of the wrist, buried it to the hilt dead center in a target.

“Holy…” Tesarus gaped, then rounded on the masseur. “Where’d you learn to do that?!”

Kaon shrugged. “Before I joined the DHD, I was a performer in a carnival. You won’t believe how many otherwise-reasonable mechs would pay good shanix to watch a mech throw sharp objects at a beautiful femme strapped to a target.”

Vos whistled. “You’ve lived with us for that long and you never spilled that?”

“He has the right to keep things private,” Tarn replied. “At any rate, keep your skills sharp, Kaon. Proficiency with any weapon can only be good for us. As for the rest of you… try out some of the more exotic weapons in our new arsenal, and see if they might suit you better than just a gun.”

Tesarus pondered that. Then he set down the rifle and picked up a curiously shaped gun instead. Nickel didn’t recognize the make of it… but realized what it was in a hurry when he pulled the trigger and released a gout of flame that very nearly singed the antennae off the Pet.

“Tess!” Helex yelped, yanking the rust-eater out of the literal line of fire. “Watch where you point that thing!”

“Sorry… didn’t realize the trigger was so touchy.” Tesarus turned away and aimed the flamethrower at the closest target, bathing it in liquid flame. Nickel let out a whistle of her own. Well, at least with a flamethrower you didn’t have to worry about being TOO accurate with your aim, right?

One by one the DHD experimented with the different types of weapons, each finding one that suited his hands best. Kaon’s past experience with the knives had already been established, and Tesarus seemed shockingly comfortable with the flamethrower -- though Nickel figured that most chefs probably had experience in dealing with fire. Helex proved hopeless with every single gun save an acid rifle, which seemed to suit him just fine. Vos, meanwhile, finally settled on a light plasma carbine that seemed to agree with his grip… and while he didn’t make every shot he took, four hits out of ten shots wasn’t all that bad in Nickel’s book.

“Very good,” Tarn said at last, just as Tesarus had melted a fifth target into a puddle of slag. “Let’s lock up the weapons for now. We’ll practice every day with them until we’ve gotten the hang of them, all right?”

“Can I take mine to my quarters with me?” asked Helex. “I’d just feel safer knowing it was within arm’s reach.”

“That isn’t a bad idea,” Tarn noted. “Very well… permission granted. Come here tomorrow at 1400 sharp for practice.”

“Kaon doesn’t even need practice,” Vos noted. “Though if you wanted to strap ME to a wall and throw knives at me…”

“Seriously, Vos, I didn’t realize you were that kinky,” Kaon replied dryly.

“Hey, I’m not a pervert like the OTHER Vos, but I gotta have my fun somehow…”

As the others drifted out of the room, Tarn carefully gathered the rest of the weaponry, stowing them in a nearby closet. “I’m glad some of them are enthusiastic about this, at least. I had feared they would refuse to even touch a weapon. We’ve been pacifists for so long…”

“Why didn’t you pick a weapon?” asked Nickel. “You’ve got to have a way to defend yourself, right?”

Tarn gave a little shudder. “I… had a bad experience with a weapon a long time ago. It misfired and…” He sighed and tapped the bottom of his mask, indicating his shattered jaw. “I’ve been reluctant to fire any sort of weapon ever since.”

 _So that explains the scars,_ she thought. Aloud she said “Understood, but you’re gonna have to get over that if you want to protect yourself. The DJD aren’t gonna be understanding of a gun phobia -- if anything, they’ll only use that against you.”

“It’s not precisely a phobia,” he retorted. “And I can find other means to defend myself. A knife like Kaon’s perhaps…”

“What about your voice?”

Even through the mask it was obvious he was frowning. “What about it?”

“The Tarn I knew was able to weaponize his voice -- he could literally talk another mech to death. If you-”

“No.” The answer was immediate and as harsh as she’d ever heard him speak. “I cannot.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“I do not know if I can… but I won’t.” His optics flashed defiance… and a bit of anger as well. “My voice is a gift, something I have used to calm terrified mechs and femmes and even draw them back from the brink of death -- whether it was a total system failure or them threatening to take their own lives out of despair. I refuse to sully it by using it to snuff an ember.” A beat, then he added “Or a spark.”

“Even if it meant your life?”

He looked away. “Even if it meant my life. I must have a few standards, after all. I refuse to sink to the depths that your Tarn did.”

Nickel reached out and rested a hand against his leg. “I know you don’t want to be anything like the other Tarn… but using your ability to save your own life, even at the cost of your attacker’s, isn’t sinking to his level. It’s self-defense, not murder or torture.”

He shook his head. “A murder is still a murder, whether out of malice or fear for one’s life. If I used my ability to take a life, then I fear I would never be able to use it again for good. No… I will find another way.”

Nickel sighed in frustration. For all their differences, the two Tarns had one thing in common -- they were stubborn to a fault. The difference being that one’s tenaciousness made him the most frightening and relentless killer in the galaxy, rivaling even Megatron himself… while the other’s just made him difficult to work with.

 _And might cost him his life._ She really hoped he’d never be in a situation where he would have to depend on his voice to save himself or others, but if push came to shove, she would much rather he be alive and hating himself for what he did than honorable but dead. It would shatter his team… and her as well. As selfish as it sounded, she couldn’t bear to lose him after losing so much else in her life, and she would do everything in her power to make sure he protected himself.

Before the two of them could debate any further, an alarm sounded through the ship.

“The proximity alarm,” Tarn realized. “Another ship is approaching.”

“Fraggit,” Nickel hissed. “They couldn’t have caught up with us THAT fast!”

Tarn scooped her up in his hands and took off for the cockpit at a run. “Did they trace your transactions on Worlorn?”

“Don’t see how they could. I used a secret account not even Tarn knows about.” She’d kept a discreet sum aside in case of emergency, figuring that if the worst (or perhaps best) ever happened and the entire team got themselves killed off, she could live off that for awhile until she found her footing again. She never dreamed she’d be using it to supply a pack of rogue pacifists with guns, but then, her life had been bizarre ever since Vos had plucked her from the swamps of Bast.

Kaon was already in the cockpit when they burst in, throwing himself into the pilot’s chair. Filling the viewscreen before them was a massive silver-white ship, blocky and chunky and shaped vaguely like a clenched fist. Despite its ungainly appearance, there was a strange aura about it that was weirdly beautiful -- and menacing. 

Nickel hissed in recognition. “The _Lost Light._ ”

“You know this vessel?” asked Tarn.

She nodded. “Not personally, but it’s pretty infamous. The Autobots launched it on a mission to find the Knights of Cybertron -- a pretty crackpot mission if you ask me, but no one ever did, so here they are.”

“Friendly or unfriendly?” asked Kaon.

“As far as I know, friendly,” she replied. “So long as you ignore the fact that its crew is full of certified lunatics. You’d think Rodimus would be more careful in who he recruits-”

At the mention of Rodimus Kaon’s optics flared, and he twisted the controls to slew the _Ember’s Hope_ away from the oncoming ship.

“Hey!” she yelped. “I just got through saying they were friendly!”

“The Rodimus we are familiar with is anything but friendly,” Tarn said balefully. “He is a cruel and power-hungry mech, seeking to claw his way to leadership by any means possible. We were fleeing his ship, the _Sword of Darkness,_ when we ended up in your universe.”

Well, that explained their moment of panic. “This Rodimus is kind of a punk, but he ain’t cruel by any stretch of the imagination. So calm down and slow the ship a bit! They’re gonna think we have something to hide and get nosy!”

“We DO have something to hide,” Kaon reminded her. “Remember that this universe sees us as the Justice Division. They could easily decide we’re a threat and destroy us.”

“Oh frag.” She hadn’t thought of that. But it made sense… the DJD were unique in their appearance, and just the sight of them was enough to strike terror in the sparks of most Cybertronians. And while they had gotten lucky with Strika and her crew, she wasn’t sure if their luck would hold a second time.

“Orders, Captain?” Kaon asked.

“Get us out of here,” Tarn replied. “The _Lost Light_ might be friendly, but I’m not taking any chances that they’ll trust that we aren’t the murderers we look like.”

Kaon nodded and gunned the throttle… only for the _Hope_ to shudder and lurch around them. “Sir, it appears we’re caught in their tractor beam.”

Nickel let loose a string of curses. “We might be putting you guys’ weapons skills to the test already.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tarn replied. “All the same… I have a bad feeling about this.”

The three of them stared through the viewscreen as the _Lost Light_ loomed large before them, the doors to a hangar bay gaping open like a maw about to swallow them whole.

***

Worlds away from the _Lost Light,_ another Tarn looked on as his teammates had their way with another victim. He rarely lowered himself to participating in this sort of debasing behavior, but it wasn’t out of any sort of moral higher ground. Rather, he found it far more pleasurable to watch than to take part. There was a thrill to playing the voyeur, after all, and letting oneself fantasize rather than perform the actions themself and ultimately be disappointed. 

Part of his CPU nagged at him, stating that tracking down and doing away with such a low-tier name on the List was a waste of time. And he wouldn’t deny that it pulled them away from their hunt for Nickel and their doppelgangers. But over the past weeks his teammates had gotten edgy and surly for lack of a proper mission, and finally he had selected a low-ranking but easily-found Decepticon traitor for them to catch and deal with appropriately. They could resume the search once they’d slaked their thirst for oil.

Tarn felt a shiver run down his spinal array as an agonized shriek tore through the air, a shiver that made his interface equipment tingle. Yes… he’d needed this just as much as his team had. These missions weren’t just about maintaining the glory of Megatron and the Decepticon cause -- they satisfied a very deep and primal need deep in his core. One that he shared, to some degree, with the rest of his team… one that united them as much as any spark-bond.

_Had Nickel chosen to join in the bond, we could have shared this with her… we could have shown her the pleasure that comes from breaking a traitor down to nothing. Ah, Nickel… we will have you yet. One way or another._

A sickening crack broke into his thoughts, followed by angry chatter.

“Fraggit, Tesarus, you broke her!”

“Whoops. Guess I got carried away.”

_-Frag right, you slagger, I didn’t even get a second turn at her.-_

“Hey, it’s not my fault they make these stupid femmes so ridiculously fragile…”

Tarn sighed, pleasure giving way to irritation. With Nickel gone, why did it fall on him to be the responsible one? “Stop this foolish bickering immediately, you clods.”

“Helex started it,” Tesarus grumped, looking down at the chassis of the traitor. “Can I shred her at least?”

 _-Hey, I still get my second turn-_ Vos demanded. _-Even if it ain’t as interesting when they’re dead…-_

“Leave her,” Tarn retorted. “We’ve wasted enough time here as it is. Back to the ship.”

Vos, Tesarus, and Helex made their way back to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , grumbling amongst themselves. Kaon waited until Tarn started walking and strode along beside him, one hand on their leader’s arm to guide himself.

“We shouldn’t have stopped in the first place,” Kaon noted. “The trail grows colder the longer we dally here.”

“I know that,” Tarn replied testily. “But we’d gone too long between kills. We needed this. Even you did. Don’t deny it.”

“You’re right,” Kaon admitted. “But that doesn’t change the fact that our medic is still on the run, and getting farther away every minute. How you expect to find her in such a vast universe, I’m not sure.”

Tarn chuckled. “I have my ways, Kaon. You won’t believe the things otherwise intelligent mechs and femmes will trust are secret… things that can be used against them…”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm fully aware that Megatron and Drift weren't on the _Lost Light_ at the same time. But I wanted both characters available, so I'm tweaking this timeline a bit. This is an AU, I can do that...

Tarn wasn’t sure who was more terrified at the moment -- his team, or the Autobot boarding party that had just forced open the main doors of the _Ember’s Hope_ and made their way inside. It didn’t help that Hot Rod himself stood at the head of the team… or that he was flanked by oddly-colored versions of Drift, Whirl, and Cyclonus, mechs who inspired revulsion and terror in every Decepticon back home. Nor did it help that all four mechs had weapons leveled at the DHD and showed no inclination to lower them.

For Tarn’s part, it took all his willpower to not turn and bolt further into the ship. It was one thing for Nickel to assure him that this universe’s Hot Rod wasn’t a sadistic power-hungry general who sought leadership at all costs… but quite another to look into the mech’s faceplate and convince himself of that.

“Well, this is just perfect,” Hot Rod noted. “Of all the ships we could intercept, we had to get the DJD. Though seriously, this crate’s a step down from you guys’ usual ship. Falling back on hard times, you five?”

“Why the frag are you making small talk with them?” Whirl demanded. “Just pump the slaggers full of plasma and leave ‘em for the scraplets!”

Tesarus gave a squeak from behind Tarn -- whether from terror or from indignation at Whirl’s cursing he could only speculate.

“Or we could arrest them and take them aboard the _Lost Light_ ,” Drift suggested, his voice oddly calm despite the circumstances and the twin blades in his hands.

“Oh, ‘cause harboring violent mechs on board’s worked out SO well for us before!” Whirl sneered. “Why fraggin’ risk it?”

Tarn shivered at the harsh tone coming from the single-opticed mech. Well, that had been something along the lines of the reaction he’d been expecting… though it sounded so strange coming from Whirl, of all mechs. He should have been cowering in fright, meek and submissive, cringing whenever Hot Rod or Drift so much as looked at him funny. Drift, in the meantime, should be wearing a cruel expression bordering on maniacal, not this calm and placid mask. And Cyclonus… was he a traitor in this universe as well, judging by the fact that he stood among Autobots? No, Nickel had mentioned an end to the war… 

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” Hot Rod quipped.

“If you knew this mech at all,” Cyclonus remarked dryly, “you would appreciate his silence as much as you could.”

That remark finally seemed to thaw out the ice that had clogged his vocalizer, and he raised his hands and began to speak. “Hot Rod, sir, I assure you that we are not who-”

“Shut up!” Whirl’s chest-cannons hummed ominously as he turned to face the DHD leader. “Don’t you dare use that voice on us!”

“I have no intention of-”

“Shut up!” A blast of energy burst from the cannons, striking the floor at Tarn’s feet. He backpedaled a few steps, wincing as the sparks kicked up by the impact seared into his shin guards.

“Whirl, cool your thrusters!” Hot Rod ordered. “Yikes, you’re jumpy.”

“You DO realize who we are dealing with, don’t you?” Cyclonus demanded, optics narrowing in his skull-like face.

“Yeah, but they haven’t tried to attack us yet, so I’m pretty sure they’re not going to try anything,” Hot Rod replied. “Look at them, they’re probably more scared than we are.”

Whirl gave a nasty laugh. “They’re the DJD. They’re not scared of nothin’.”

Tarn opened his mouth to protest that, then thought better of it. He turned to Kaon, who nodded and spoke up in a shaky but determined voice.

“We are not the Decepticon Justice Division,” he explained. “We are mechs from another universe who passed through a rift in space and found ourselves here. I can assure you we mean you no harm, and simply wish to go on our way in peace.”

Whirl had no face to emote with, but something about the glow in his optic got his disdain across just fine. “Likely story,” he sneered.

“Why would we lie about this?” demanded Vos. “C’mon, just let us go! We don’t want any trouble!”

“Your kind has an alarming tendency to cause trouble wherever you go,” Cyclonus pointed out bitterly.

Hot Rod’s gaze moved from one member of the DHD to another, as if trying to make up his CPU. The difference between this Hot Rod and the one Tarn knew couldn’t be more striking -- while the Hot Rod of his universe reveled in the chance to flex his authority whenever he could, craving power as if it sustained his very ember, this Hot Rod seemed reluctant to play the authority figure. It was as if he were waiting for one of his comrades to step up and do something so he wouldn't have to take responsibility for their find.

“All right, let’s cuff ‘em and get them aboard,” he decided at last with a hefty sigh through his vents. “We can decide what to do with ‘em later…”

“Oh, frag that!” Whirl snarled. “That’s a death sentence for all of us! I’m not bringing these mechs aboard unless they’re dead!” And he shoved past Hot Rod and stalked forward, pincer-like claws open and gleaming, chest guns thrumming to life.

Vos gave a high-pitched keen and pressed against Tarn’s leg. Helex backed away with all four hands raised in fearful surrender, while Tesarus just hunched down in a vain attempt to make himself as small as possible. Even the normally calm and unflappable Kaon stumbled backwards, optics bright with alarm. Tarn, for his part, had to press his legs together to keep his knee joints from shaking badly enough to make him collapse. Had they come this far in their flight, only to perish at the hands of a vengeful Autobot?

“Just stop RIGHT there, fragger!”

Whirl froze in place, optic flickering in confusion, as Nickel emerged from behind one of Tarn’s shoulder-mounted treads. The minicon’s height hadn’t increased one iota, but she carried herself with a proud and regal air that belonged to a mech many times her height. Her turquoise optics were hard with determined anger, and she looked down at the cyclopean mech with equal parts disdain and rage.

“What the…” Whirl muttered.

“You slaggin’ idiot,” Nickel snapped, and she leaped from Tarn’s shoulder to the floor with a quick burst of her rocket pack. “What the flying frag are you proving by attacking a group of mechs that hasn’t done a THING to hurt or even threaten you, huh? Think threatening ‘em and blasting ‘em to scrap when they haven’t even shown a weapon, let alone pointed it at you, makes you so tough? Huh?”

Under normal circumstances it would have been comical to see the spindly, wicked-looking mech back away from the tiny medic. She advanced on him step by step as she spoke, jabbing a finger at him accusingly. And Whirl wasn’t alone -- Hot Rod regarded her with a dropped jaw, and even Cyclonus tilted his head to one side in puzzled interest. Drift, for his part, looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned.

“All these mechs want is a safe place to hide,” she went on. “They didn’t threaten your ship or its crew. Slag, they would’ve just given you a wide berth and been on their way if you hadn’t jumped the gun and snagged ‘em. And now you’re threatening to offline ‘em because YOU couldn’t slagging well leave well enough alone and let them go on by! Who’s the violent slagger now, you son of a motherboard-fraggin’ glitch!”

“Please don’t swear,” Tesarus murmured out of pure reflex.

“Sorry,” she replied, “but it’s the fraggin’ truth. Sorry again.”

Hot Rod snapped his jaw shut, a grin replacing his stupefied expression. “Who’s the minicon? Whoever she is, I like her already. Sassy.”

“Nickel, medic for the Decepticon Justice Division,” Nickel replied, craning her head back to look him in the optic. “Which these guys AREN’T. If any of you have a CPU in your rusted-out cranial units, take a closer look at these guys, all right? You’ll see the difference.”

“So they’re different colors,” Whirl snorted. “Doesn’t mean a thing. We’re not stupid, a change in paint job isn’t gonna-”

Cyclonus’ clawed hand landed on Whirl’s shoulder, silencing him. His scarlet optics raked over each member of the DHD, silent and calculating. His strangely skeletal jaws didn’t allow for much facial expression, but Tarn thought he could detect a faint gleam of understanding in his gaze.

“She’s correct,” he finally announced. “These mechs are not the Justice Division.”

“You’re sure?” asked Hot Rod.

“Absolutely.” He gestured at Tarn. “There’s a superficial resemblance, yes, but there are too many differences in appearance. Their alt modes are visibly different, and Kaon retains his optics. Among other things…”

Drift gave a gentle smile and sheathed his blades. “That’s a relief. I got a good vibe off this ship and would hate to spoil it by starting a fight.”

“Oh, for Primus sake,” Whirl huffed. “Am I the only mech here who hasn’t gone crazy?”

“Considering you’re usually the crazy one, that would be a shocker,” Hot Rod muttered, though he wore a wide grin. “Well, whoever you mechs are, welcome aboard the Lost Light. Hot Rod, leader of the expedition to find the Knights of Cybertron.” He extended a hand. “And you are?”

Relief flooded Tarn’s chassis as he reached out and grasped Hot Rod’s hand, his massive digits dwarfing the Autobot commander’s grip. “Captain Tarn, at your service. Yes, I’m aware whom I share a name with -- I assure you I am nothing like him.”

Whirl scoffed, then yelped as Cyclonus elbowed him sharply in the side.

“And to answer the question no one has asked yet but I’m sure you’re wondering -- the reason we look so much like the Decepticon Justice Division is because we are their duplicates from another universe. One that seems to be a mirror image of yours. In that universe we are the DHD, dedicated to bringing aid and comfort to those hurt or displaced by the war and finding them sanctuary wherever we can.”

Hot Rod nodded slowly. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“You don’t seem surprised by it,” Kaon noted.

“Given the strange adventures we’ve had on this trip so far,” Hot Rod confessed, “running into the good-guy duplicates of the Scary Justice Division doesn’t even crack the top ten when it comes to weird. But hey, if we have to play host to a Tarn and his comrades, at least we get the nice ones, right?”

“If you’re not the DJD, why ya go their medic anyhow?” It seemed Whirl would not be mollified by their explanation.

“It’s a long story,” Tarn replied.

“We like stories,” Drift said with a soft chuckle. “But in the meantime, could we ask where you’re headed?”

“We’re trying to get to Cybertron to find sanctuary,” Nickel explained. “The DJD’s on our afts -- you can guess why -- and we’re hoping that they won’t have the gears to chase us all the way there. Also these guys were hoping to find an audience with Megatron there if they could.”

Hot Rod’s optic shutters blinked… and he burst out laughing.

“Might I ask what’s so amusing?” Tarn inquired, frowning behind his mask.

“What are the odds?” Hot Rod got out between bursts of laughter. “We’ve had some weird adventures on this journey, true, but this just bumps you up to the top ten! Well, low on the list, but still…”

“Are you trying to tell us that Megatron is aboard the _Lost Light_?” asked Helex, optics bright with wonder.

“That was JUST on the tip of my vocalizer,” Hot Rod replied. “Don’t ask why, it’s a long story. But if you want a meeting with him… we can certainly arrange it. In the meantime, let’s get you aboard. We certainly do get all kinds aboard this ship, don’t we?”

***

“Just go in,” Nickel urged. “You’ll be fine.”

Tarn shifted from foot to foot. “I can’t go in there.”

Nickel sighed deeply. “This is all you’ve talked about doing since you got to this ‘verse. Why’re you backing out now?”

“This is not the Megatron I know. Not the scholar who set himself against a mad and corrupt Prime. This mech… is something far different, a mirror warped out of true. He won’t recognize me, and I fear he won’t accept me, knowing I’m so different from the Tarn who serves him.”

“Yeah, point… but he’s an Autobot now. And in this ‘verse it’s the Autobots who’re the halfway decent mechs. He’s not gonna bite your head off. At least not first thing.”

Her efforts at humor just keyed him up all the more. For all he talked of tracking down this universe’s Megatron and pledging himself to his service, now that the reality of that vow was at hand, he found himself nervous to the point of panic. He knew precious little of this Megatron, but from what scraps he had gleaned his CPU had painted a portrait of a tyrant, a mech who could and would kill millions to accomplish his goals and who held entire worlds in the thrall of his terror. This was no benevolent revolutionary… this was a monster.

“Tarn… go in,” she urged. “Hot Rod promised you’d be safe here. And in this universe, you can trust Hot Rod. And if you have any problems, the rest of us are just a comm away, all right?”

Tarn took in a deep vent of air, then let it out slowly. “All right… but I will hold you to that, all right?”

She nodded and patted his leg. “Go on… we’ll see you soon, all right?”

Tarn watched her go, her diminutive form vanishing around a corner, before turning to the conference room where Hot Rod and Drift had told him he could meet with the former Decepticon warlord. Steeling himself for whatever lay on the other side of that door, he opened it and stepped through.

The conference room had been set up with a meeting of the ship’s officers in mind, and so bore a large oval holo-table surrounded by high-backed chairs. No one occupied any of the chairs; instead, a tall silver-and-black form stood before the room’s wall-to-wall window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out into the star-studded blackness of space. Unconsciously Tarn found himself picking out the subtle differences between this mech and his doppelganger in his home universe -- no wings, a sleeker chassis bearing signs of a war-machine alt mode, weld scars and dents aplenty bespeaking a past of violence…

Without turning to face him, Megatron spoke. “You’re not him.”

Tarn’s optics flickered in confusion. “My lord?”

“You are not the Tarn I know.” He turned in place, revealing scarlet optics and a set of noble yet weary features. “Given that I’ve committed the ultimate treason by wearing another sigil, the Tarn I know would have me crippled and gutted the moment he entered the room. Not dead yet, but certainly incapable of fighting back.” Megatron spoke those words calmly, matter-of-factly, and it was that calm more than the words themselves that made Tarn shudder. 

“I am… aware… of my other self’s reputation, my Lord. I can assure you I do not share it.”

Megatron waved a hand dismissively. “No more of this ‘my Lord’ business,” he ordered. “My rank is gone along with my Decepticon sigil. I am a prisoner of war, not a leader. You may address me as an equal.”

Tarn shook his head in confusion. This was all going to take a lot of getting used to.

The silver mech strode toward the table and pulled out a chair, and Tarn followed suit. He settled his bulk down gingerly before facing Megatron again. He could feel the former tyrant’s optics raking over him, inspecting him from head to foot and taking in the differences.

“I was told you wished to speak to me,” he said at last, “and that you would offer your services to me in exchange for protection. I’m sorry to say I’m in no such position to offer you sanctuary.”

Tarn nodded. “I understand, my L- Megatron. Much is different in this universe, and we’re still trying to get accustomed. We… we had hoped to reach Cybertron, and perhaps petition the Prime for sanctuary…”

“The Prime is in self-imposed exile, paying penance for his imagined crimes,” Megatron replied, a hint of disdain in his voice. “No… Starscream rules Cybertron now. And your doubles are not loved even among Decepticons. There is a chance he would grant you the asylum you seek, but it’s just as likely that he would find some creative way of disposing of you.”

“Then what do you suggest, Megatron? We cannot run forever. We’ve spent so much of our lives running that we scarcely know what safety feels like anymore.”

Megatron narrowed his optics… and Tarn was struck by how immensely tired he looked. Not just physically exhausted, but mentally, as if the millions of years of war and hardship had caught up to him at last.

“In that sense, I think we have something in common,” Megatron noted softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You probably think me evil,” he went on, his gaze moving away from Tarn and on some imagined point in the distance. “The sinister evil twin to your own Megatron, perhaps. A conveniently simple notion, I’m sure, but do you think I intended to be evil from the very start? That I simply awoke one morning and decided to become the terror of the galaxy? It’s not that simple… nothing is ever that simple. No one sets out to become a monster -- not even the Justice Division, which was started with the best of intentions before a psychopath took it over and sullied it forever with his own twisted agenda… but that’s another story.

“The Autobots favor the story that Cybertron prospered in a Golden Age of peace before my revolution shattered the planet forever. But if I sought to shatter Cybertron, it was only because it was already broken beyond repair and needed shattering and assembling anew. Our world, our kind, were trapped in a caste system that saw the higher classes prospering at the expense of the lower, that saw innocent mechs suffer cruel punishments and even disfiguring for daring to speak their minds or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time... that saw depravities whitewashed or justified or overlooked entirely in favor of furthering the illusion that all was well and our society wasn’t rotting at its very core.”

Tarn shuddered. That sounded all too familiar to him… 

“Ah, I see it isn’t so different from the Cybertron you knew. This was a system I hoped to repair… but something went wrong along the way. I found that it’s all too easy to justify cruelty so long as it furthers your cause… and that one who fights monsters can all too easily find himself becoming a monster too. By the time I realized what I had become, I had passed the point of no return… and worlds and civilizations paid the price.”

Without thinking Tarn reached out and rested a hand on Megatron’s. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Megatron shook his head. “You have no cause to be sorry. The fault is mine and mine alone. And when the _Lost Light_ accomplishes its mission I shall return to Cybertron and pay for my crimes with my life. Not the end I would have chosen… but perhaps better than I deserve.”

“Megatron… if there is anything I can do to…” He couldn’t finish, but Megatron seemed to read his intent anyhow.

“The one thing you can do for me, Tarn, is this.” His optics met Tarn’s, and a strange fire burned in them. “Live. Go to Cybertron and live. Don’t pledge yourself to any mech’s service, but live your own lives as you see fit. Open a shop, pursue a career, take to the underground and roam the alleys as Cybertron’s first pacifist street gang, anything... but live your lives as your own, not another’s. The Tarn of this universe is too far gone to save, his allegiance to some perverted version of my cause too bound up in his spark… but it isn’t too late for you.”

Tarn looked down at his hands. “We have spent our lives serving others, making their own lives better, that we don’t know how to take care of ourselves. And we _want_ to serve others… is that so bad?”

Megatron shook his head. “Not in and of itself… but the danger is in losing yourself in the process. Serve others if you must, but don’t forget to tend to your own needs as well. I’m sure the five of you -- no, six with that little medic of yours -- have your own hopes and dreams beyond a life in service to the Decepticons. Even if they’re buried so deep you no longer remember them.”

Tarn sat back in his chair, shuttering his optics. He had a lot to ponder, it seemed… but somehow, talking with Megatron had settled his ember. He hadn’t accepted Tarn’s pledge of loyalty, but he had offered well-meant advice, and he would take it.

“I would like to see the rest of your team before you leave this ship,” Megatron noted, and for the first time since their meeting began he smiled slightly. “I’d be very interested in seeing just how different they are from the Justice Division I know.”

“I think you’ll be quite surprised,” Tarn replied. “Though… I only hope they’re faring well. We didn’t exactly receive the warmest welcome, and I fear they might find hostility among the rest of the crew…”

***

“First round’s on me, folks!” Swerve crowed with a huge grin, sliding a cup of shimmering amber fluid toward Vos. “After that you pay. But don’t worry, I take all kinds of currency -- shanix, gossip, MP3 downloads, your first-sparked offspring…”

Vos stared into the cup. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?”

“Aw, c’mon, why would I poison customers?” Swerve asked. “You wound me, pal! Bar patrons dropping dead in their cups is bad for business!”

“You seem awfully cheerful around us,” Kaon noted, sipping from his own glass.

“Eh, never figured I’d end up on the List, so never had much cause to be scared of your evil twins,” Swerve replied, filling a beaker the size of his thumb with the amber liquid and placing it before Nickel. “And for the little lady! My treat.” One side of his visor darkened in a wink.

“Oh, stop it,” Nickel snapped, though her faceplates heated up at the flirtatious remark.

Nickel had fully expected the crew of the _Lost Light_ to give her team ( _her_ team -- thinking of the DHD in that way sent a warm shiver through her spark) a wide berth and a cold shoulder once they came aboard. At worst, she anticipated a knife in someone’s back; at best, for the poor Division to be ostracized and insulted wherever they went. Given the DJD’s nasty reputation, she wasn’t sure she would blame those mechs for that reaction -- perhaps some of them were even on the infamous List, or had lost friends or loved ones to Tarn and his cruelty.

She had expected coldness and hatred… and so finding herself and four of the DHD parked in front of Swerve’s bar was something of a shock.

“So you guys are really from another universe?” a white-and-aqua minibot asked, looking up at Tesarus with an expression of undisguised awe -- no small feat for a mech who wore both mask and visor. “What’s it like there?”

“Not so different from yours,” Tesarus replied. “Mechs look a little different -- think a video game where they create different characters by swapping out the color palettes -- and their personalities are switched around, but both are still populated by Cybertronians. The Autobots were more tyrannical in that universe, but I suppose that’s a matter of perspective…”

“Awww.” The minibot slumped on his barstool. “I was hoping it’d be more exotic. You know, maybe with wizards and dragons, or elder gods with tentacles or something.”

“You’ve read too many trashy human novels, Tailgate,” Cyclonus muttered from the stool on the minibot’s other side. 

Nickel sipped at her drink, enjoying the pleasantly spicy aftertaste. It was amazing, really -- after the initial shock of seeing color-swapped clones of the DJD aboard their ship had worn off, the crew of the Lost Light had welcomed them with open arms. Not everyone was pleased to see them -- Whirl had stalked off to sulk after Hot Rod overrode his request to shoot their legs off “just to be on the safe side,” Red Alert shot them panicked looks from across the room as he huddled into frantic conversation with a long-suffering Rung, and the less said about Ultra Magnus (or Minimus Ambus or whatever he was calling himself these days), the better. But aside from those detractors, everyone seemed content to let the DHD be… or even to sidle up and prod them with curious questions.

For the first time in ages, Nickel allowed herself to relax. This wasn’t the sanctuary she would have chosen for them, but she would accept it for now. And although this ship already had its own medic, and a famous one at that, she wondered if perhaps she could find herself -- and her crew -- a permanent place aboard the _Lost Light_. She was sure the DHD’s talents wouldn’t go to waste here.

“I bet you guys have some amazing stories to tell,” said Vos, optics gleaming with delight.

“We’ve seen our share of unusual sights,” Drift replied with a smile. “Alternate timelines, heroes and legends long thought dead or mythical, holographic worlds sprung from our own crewmates’ imaginations, mad scientists, strange creatures of all kinds…”

Vos squealed and clapped his hands like a sparkling. “I love a good story! Oh, do you mind if I record some of them? I’m sure your universe is eager to hear the tale of the _Lost Light_ and its adventures!”

Drift chuckled. “You are adorable, Vos. It’s hard to believe you’re the alternate-universe double of one of the most feared mechs in our universe.”

“You know, I don’t think we have a chronicler of any kind aboard this ship,” Nautica pointed out. “And we’ve been through so much already that I think most of us can’t even keep it all straight. It’d be handy to have someone aboard who could record and organize this ship’s exploits.”

“That would be awesome!” Tailgate gushed. “And we could publish it when we get back to Cybertron! Or make it into a great holoshow. Wonder what actors would portray us…”

“Someone has to write it all down first,” Cyclonus told him with a surly frown. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Vos twittered softly and rubbed his palms together. “I gotta get to interviewing everyone first thing! So many stories, so little time!”

“Easy, Vos,” Kaon laughed. “Don’t wear yourself out on your first day here.”

“If Vos is gonna make himself useful here, I’d like to offer my services too,” said Helex as he fed hard-energon bits to the Pet in his lap. “I’d hate to think I was abusing your hospitality.”

“Eh, you stay here long enough and Ultra Magnus’ll give you something to do,” Swerve replied, wiping down the bar with a cloth. “Though I think someone actually volunteering for duty will make him blow a logic circuit. Most mechs here try to dodge responsibility, not take it up.”

“We don’t like to just sit idle,” Tesarus told him. “We’ve always tried to help other mechs. And it seems like the _Lost Light_ has been through a lot of traumatic events during its journey. Exciting, yeah, but still traumatic. If we can do something, anything, to help you… even if it’s just a massage, or a cleaning, or someone to talk to…”

“Or a ‘facing session,” Vos chimed in.

“Vos, don’t,” groaned Kaon.

“What, just offering,” Vos retorted.

“You mentioned massage,” Drift cut in, though gently enough that Vos wouldn’t feel like he’d been interrupted. “Which of you offers that service? I might be interested.”

Kaon raised his hand. “I’d rather not do it here in the bar, but if you have a spare room I can make use of, I’d be happy to treat you. My alt mode is a massage chair, but given what I know about the other Kaon… perhaps you’d be more comfortable with a hands-on treatment.”

Drift, to his credit, didn’t flinch or shudder at Kaon’s words. “That sounds delightful. And in return, perhaps I can teach you a few of the techniques I’ve picked up over the vorns? I know some relaxation routines and other tricks that can help your patients relax even more during a session.”

“I’d be delighted to learn,” Kaon replied with a smile.

“What about the rest of you?” Tailgate asked. “Kaon’s a masseur and Vos collects stories… what about you two?”

Helex shrugged. “I’m just a cleaner. My alt mode is a wash rack.”

“Oh, Sunny would love you,” cackled Swerve. “He’s that bright yellow mech in the corner there with the Insecticon at his feet. He’s kinda a grouch, but he looks good and he knows it. And he’s REAL fussy about his looks.”

“Maybe I can help him with that,” Helex said with a smile. “Or anyone else, for that matter…”

“What about you?” Tailgate poked at Tesarus’ arm.

“Um… it’s kind of silly,” Tesarus murmured. “I… like… to cook…”

Tailgate’s visor glowed with excitement. “No way! That’s awesome! Can you make osmium tarts? I love those!”

Cyclonus sighed deeply. “My apologies. Tailgate still possesses the CPU of a sparkling at times.”

Tesarus laughed. “Ah, I think it’s adorable. And sure I can, ‘Gate. I don’t have the osmium on hand, but…”

“I’ve got some behind the bar,” Swerve assured him. “Got stuff for makin’ several snack recipes, actually. Always thought about serving bar munchies but haven’t gotten around to actually doin’ it.”

Tesarus grinned widely behind his X visor. “I’d be happy to make snacks for your bar, Swerve! It’s the least I can do for your hospitality.”

Tailgate clapped excitedly. “Osmium tarts first!”

“Tailgate…” Cyclonus growled.

“And some of those paraffin cookies for Cyclonus,” Tailgate added, ignoring the mech’s warning. “I know he likes those.”

“Tailgate…” Cyclonus sighed again. “Fine. Yes, I like those.”

“One batch of osmium tarts and one batch of paraffin cookies coming up!” Tesarus beamed as he stood up and went to join Swerve behind the bar.

Nickel smiled and knocked back the rest of her drink. It looked like these four were going to get along just fine aboard the _Lost Light_. She wasn’t too worried about herself… she could generally get by wherever she ended up. It was her team she had been most worried about, and it warmed her spark to see them all settling in so well.

Well, almost all of them. Tarn still hadn’t returned from his meeting with Megatron, and she could only hope it was going well for him…

 _Speak of the Unmaker_ , she thought as Tarn entered the room. Her spark gave a quick flutter in its chamber, and she raised her hand and waved him over. His step seemed light as he approached, and his optics gleamed with a good humor she hadn’t seen when she’d left him outside the conference room. That was a good sign.

“How did it go?” asked Kaon as Tarn settled himself on a stool between Vos and a Legislator-type drone who didn’t so much as blink an optic shutter at his presence.

“Remarkably well,” Tarn replied, “though I have a lot to think about.” He sighed deeply and reached up to rub his temples. “Megatron would like to speak to us all at some point. And I don’t think it’s a bad idea. He has a few ideas on how we can find a place for ourselves in this galaxy.”

“I thought the plan was to go into the service of whoever’s ruling Cybertron now,” asked Tesarus, looking up from his mixing.

“That… could very well change, given what I’ve learned.”

“Um… we could just stay here on the _Lost Light_ ,” Vos noted. “I mean, they seem pretty happy to have us. Or we could go back to Strika’s ship, they liked us there…”

“You guys met _Strika_?!” Tailgate gushed. “That’s AWESOME!”

“For bolt’s sake, Tailgate,” muttered Cyclonus.

“Well, I’d say you guys got a while before you have to make any major decisions,” Swerve told them. “I mean, we’re not anywhere close to Cybertron, and who knows where this journey is going to take us. So I think you deserve a little R-and-R before you start planning the rest of your lives.” He slid a large cube of amber liquid in front of Tarn. “In the meantime, stick around. It’s karaoke night at the bar, and from what you told me about Big Guy here I think he might enjoy it.”

Tarn tilted his head quizzically. “Karaoke?”

“Trust me, it’s fun!” Tailgate assured him. “Though Cyclonus isn’t allowed to participate anymore, something about Ratchet tired of having to fix everyone’s audials afterwards…”

Nickel laughed as Tailgate launched into the tale of Why Cyclonus Isn’t Allowed To Sing Karaoke Anymore, to Tarn’s amusement and the horned mech’s consternation. The _Lost Light_ were all a bunch of certifiable nutcases as far as she could tell… but in a good way. She could get used to this...


	15. Chapter 15

“How can you charge your own crewmates for drinks?” grumbled Nickel as she accepted the cube and her debit chip from Swerve.

“Mech’s gotta be able to afford incidentals somehow,” Swerve replied with a cheeky grin. “An’ if I gave out free booze to just every Rod, Drift, and Tailgate, I’d be dry inside a week.”

“We’ve got our own little economy of sorts on this ship,” Chromedome noted, not looking up from the table where Kaon was working a bad kink out of his neck strut. “It’s worked so far for us. Mmmmm… that feels better already, Kaon. You have the best hands in the quadrant.”

“I thought you said Ratchet had the best hands in the quadrant,” Rewind teased him from his perch on Tesarus’ shoulder.

“That was before he got ‘em replaced,” Chromedome retorted.

Kaon opened his mouth as if about to ask about that, but shut it and went back to his massage, seeming to decide that he really didn’t want to know.

Nickel sipped her drink, allowing herself to relax as her gaze swept the bar. How much things could change in just a matter of days -- going from wanted fugitives to members of the _Lost Light’s_ crew. True, they weren’t listed as such on the ship’s manifest, but the mechs aboard the craft had simply made room for them without much fuss. The DHD had found their roles on the ship, whether it was as chronicler or bar cook or masseuse or just a luxury washrack of sorts, and for the most part they seemed content in said roles. Even Nickel had settled in, assisting Ratchet in the repair bay and exchanging their own warped brand of medical humor.

Well, almost all of them had found their place, she corrected herself. Tarn was still adrift, spending most of his days either talking to Megatron or just watching mechs go by at the bar. He didn’t drink himself senseless or mope around, but Nickel could tell that his lack of purpose bothered him. 

_He’ll find something,_ she told herself. _It might take awhile, but he’ll find his place. I just hope he takes Megatron’s words to spark and lives for himself for once. He’s spent so much time living for others I think he’s forgotten how to take care of himself._

Though speaking of the DHD leader… “Anyone seen Tarn?”

Tesarus looked up from the pot he was stirring over a small heat unit. “He was at the bar last I saw him.”

“He’s not there anymore,” Swerve pointed out as he wiped out a glass. “Check the floor -- he mighta passed out.”

“Tarn doesn’t get pass-out drunk,” Helex argued. “He’s careful like that.”

“I dunno, he had about six cubes of my house blend,” Swerve replied. “That’s gotta be enough to make a combiner tipsy.” 

“Who the frag convinced him to drink THAT much?” Nickel snapped. “Sorry, Tess.”

“It’s all right,” Tesarus replied. 

Swerve did his best to look innocent, no small feat given the cheeky grin on his faceplate. “I mighta challenged him to match Fortress Maximus shot for shot…”

“You slagger,” Nickel growled. “Sorry, Tess. What’d you go and do a thing like that for?”

“Hey, someone has to cheer the big guy up. Couldn’t stand to see him mope around the ship like someone kicked his turbo-puppy into a black hole. I figured a little liquid encouragement couldn’t hurt.”

Nickel opened her mouth to tell him off… only for a swell of music to fill the bar. The chatter faded as everyone’s attention was drawn to a makeshift stage in one corner, where Tailgate and a reluctant Cyclonus were wiring in some kind of music system. And standing on said stage, swaying dangerously on his feet as he lifted a microphone to his mask…

“Boss!” Vos giggled and clapped with glee. “This is awesome! Nickel, you finally get to hear him sing for us!”

“What in the…” was all Nickel could get out.

Just when Nickel thought Swerve’s grin couldn’t get any wider, it grew another notch. “Looks like they finally got the karaoke system in. Wonder if Ultra Magnus got around to approving it. Not that it matters a whole lot…”

“Someone get him down from there,” Nickel ordered. “He’s going to embarrass himself.”

“Oh, let him sing,” Kaon insisted, a warm smile on his faceplate. “He has a better voice overcharged than most mechs do sober. Besides, it’s just a song. What’s the worst that can happen?”

The music seemed to have passed its intro by now, and Tarn pressed a hand to his chest and began to sing in a rich, golden baritone. It was a voice fit to shake the very stars in the black of space, one that thrilled the audial sensors and made sparks shiver in their chambers. Nickel wasn’t proof against it, and felt a curious soaring sensation in her fuel tanks as the velvety sound of it poured out of his vocalizer. Even Bob and the Pet perked up from where they play-wrestled at Helex’s feet, and both rust-eater and Insecticon turned all their attention toward the stage, antennae quivering.

 _“I could stay awake just to hear you breathing,”_ he sang, the words hanging in the air just in front of the stage to guide him along. _“Watch you smile while you are sleeping / While you’re far away and dreaming…”_

“Huh,” Helex grunted. “This isn’t a Cybertroniain song.”

“It’s a human tune,” Drift replied. “From Earth. Humans might be a little antiquated in their ways, but they have some beautiful music.”

 _“I could spend my life in this sweet surrender,”_ Tarn continued. His optics shuttered as he lost himself in the music, voice steady even as he swayed and wobbled on his feet in his intoxicated state. _“I could stay lost in this moment forever…”_

Nickel couldn’t suppress a smile. He really did have a glorious voice… and if she let her imagination wander just a bit she could fantasize that this was a love song and he was singing it just for her…

Wait a minute… if she understood the lyrics right, this WAS a love song…

Tarn’s optics snapped open, and the hand pressed to his chest now pointed directly at her. _“Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure!”_

“Oh slag,” she grumbled, and raised her hands to cover her face, despite being sure that her blush was so bright it was glowing through the chinks between her fingers.

_“Don’t wanna close my eyes, don’t wanna fall asleep / ‘Cause I’d miss you, baby / And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”_

The crowd gathered in Swerve’s bar burst into applause, though she couldn’t say whether they were cheering for the quality of his voice or the fact that he was singing to a potential conjux in the audience. A few mechs cackled and whooped in sheer amusement, and Nickel made a private note to get their names so she could stab them in the ankles later. Even the DHD beamed and clapped along with everyone else.

_“‘Cause even when I dream of you / The sweetest dream will never do / I’d still miss you, baby / And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”_

To her horror, Tarn began to step down from the stage, wobbling back and forth like a newspark learning to walk. Mechs shifted out of his way to avoid being stepped on or tripped over, leaving a clear corridor all the way to Nickel. Part of her wanted to flee, mortified by the attention… but she stayed rooted to the spot, some glow of emotion fighting its way through her embarrassment to rise to the surface.

_“Lying close to you, feeling your heart beating / And I’m wondering what you’re dreaming / Wondering if it’s me you’re seeing…”_

He was ten meters away now… five…

_“Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we’re together / I just want to stay with you in this moment forever / Forever and ever…”_

He was looming right over her… and seeing the visage of Tarn towering over her, gazing down at her with a fevered light burning in his optics, should have made her recoil in horror. All she felt was an overwhelming love in her spark, blazing in response to his gaze, his voice.

His free hand reached down to scoop her up, to hold her against his chest.

_“I don’t wanna close my eyes / Don’t wanna fall asleep / ‘Cause I miss you, babe / And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”_

“Oh Primus, that is so adorable,” Chromedome cooed. 

Tailgate made a high, tiny sound that could only be described as a squee. Cyclonus shot him a look that hovered somewhere between disgust and fondness. 

The song continued to play, but Tarn seemed content to stop singing and simply hold her close, not caring that half the _Lost Light_ crew were watching them and cheering the odd couple on. A handful of mechs in the back were even chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” as if this were a sporting event.

“Nickel… I love you.” Tarn raised her to his mask and nuzzled her gently.

“Love you too, you giant dork,” she replied, kissing the side of his mask. “Can you put me down? Everyone’s staring at us.”

“Let them,” he rumbled, cuddling her close like an electro-kitten. “Or better yet… let’s go somewhere we CAN’T be stared at.”

The mechs closest to them caught the implications behind that statement, and they hooted and clapped in response. Nickel found herself blushing all over again

“You’re fragged, Tarn,” she protested. “Drunk as a gutter mech.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’ve wanted to do so many things to you for some time now,” Tarn replied, his voice somehow growing even smoother and more velvety. “So many things that will give you only pleasure.”

Another chorus of hoots and squeals from the audience. Even Vos was cheering them on.

“Tarn…” Nickel began, though any further protest died on her lips. She wanted this as much as he did… and was quite curious to see what sort of tricks he knew.

“Your quarters,” she murmured. “Quick, before Vos gets the bright idea to join us.”

“Gladly.” Tarn dropped the microphone and strode off, cupping her to his chest with both hands. Vos took a few steps after them, but Kaon reached out to snatch him back.

“Have fun, the two of you,” the masseuse called after them. “I hope you don’t get any recharge tonight!”

Tarn gave a booming laugh as he left the bar. Nickel giggled and wriggled against him. Stars, she felt like a young femme again… her world wasn’t perfect, but it was better than she could ever have imagined. Nothing could spoil her mood, she thought.

***

Worlorn.

Tarn’s lips curled in a satisfied smile beneath his mask as he noted the data on the computer screen. They were on Worlorn, or at the very least had just recently been there. And if they continued on this path, it meant they were heading for Cybertron itself. Though if he had anything to say about it, they would never reach their destination.

Nickel must think him a fool, he mused. She thought she could dupe him and vanish into the dark matter of space without a trace. But he had never intended to let her slip through his grasp -- she was far too valuable to lose, both as a medic and as a source of stability for his team. Like it or not, her presence kept them from turning on one another, whether it was through her acidic vocalizer or simply being an available punching bag between hunts. And if she could provide further stability through a bond… so much the better.

So when he had discovered, entirely by accident, that she had maintained her own private account containing a substantial sum of credits, he had kept careful track of it. And when she had been snatched on Bast, he had checked said account several times a day, on the off chance that she delved into said funds for one reason or another. The account had lain dormant for weeks, and for a time Tarn wondered if she suspected that he’d discovered it… but this recent transaction proved otherwise.

A thrill shivered through his sensory network, and he had to still the sudden trembling in his hands. _We’re coming for you, Nickel… you and those duplicates you’ve found yourself in company with. We will punish them for their audacity, punish them as we have never done to a mech or femme before… and we will secure you to our side once and for all._

He pushed himself away from the console and turned toward Helex. “Set our course for Worlorn.”

Helex scowled, both sets of arms folded over his torso. “There’s nothin’ there but gunrunners and pirates. Nickel would stab herself in the optic with a rusty pick before goin’ there.”

“Nevertheless, her captors have taken her there,” Tarn replied. “Whether they are there still, I do not know, but it’s our best lead.”

“We need proof, not leads,” Kaon pointed out. “How long are we going to be chasing endlessly around the cosmos on this chase, Tarn? We might as well accept that we’ll never see her again and move on with the hunt.”

Tarn swiveled around to glower at the blind mech. Then he pushed his bulk out of his chair and advanced, step by step, upon him, engine rumbling like the snarl of a cyber-dragon. Helex and Tesarus backed away, optics flashing, and Vos skittered back but gibbered excitedly at the prospect of some on-ship carnage.

Kaon’s blank optics stared vaguely at Tarn’s chest, but his face was set in an expression of defiance. He lifted his chin, daring Tarn to strike him down for his insolence.

“You think to challenge me?” Tarn growled. “That could prove costly, Kaon.”

“We tire of this endless quest,” Kaon retorted. “We frankly don’t care if we ever see Nickel again. We want the hunt. A real hunt, not chasing after reflections and shadows. We have the List… and we have Megatron to take care of as well. Let Nickel go and allow us to go back to our true mission.”

Tarn’s gaze flicked toward Helex and Tesarus. Neither mech spoke, but their expressions were proof enough -- they were in agreement with Kaon. They didn’t care whether or not they ever found Nickel; they just wanted to return to their business of tracking and butchering traitors to the cause. Vos… Vos would simply follow whoever was in charge, not caring whether they tracked down a traitor or their wayward medic so long as he got a good frag and some oil spilled, preferably both at the same time.

“So that is how it is,” he intoned, voice level and smooth as polished chrome. “Very well, then… we end the search. Right here, right now.”

Kaon’s expression faltered, as if he’d expected more of a fight. “Sir?”

“You are right, of course,” Tarn went on. “It’s so much trouble trying to find a lone minicon who doesn’t wish to be found. And retrieving her and eliminating our impersonators is simply distracting us from our true mission, isn’t it?”

Helex and Tesarus nodded in agreement. Vos, for his part, just narrowed his optics in suspicion. At least one of his followers was no fool, it seemed…

Tarn turned as if to return to his computer… then lashed out, backhanding Kaon into the nearest wall. Kaon slammed into the metal and crashed to the floor, leaving a sizeable dent and a starburst of fluid from a ruptured tube. The others backed away, skittish with fear.

“You fools.” Tarn advanced on the larger two mechs now, who continued to back away from his aura of sheer rage. “This is far more than chasing our medic. Nickel has information on our true identities… and worse, our weaknesses. Do you really want that information bandied about? Or would you prefer to let her trade that information to the Autobots in exchange for asylum?”

The two of them exchanged wary glances. Of course that thought hadn’t occurred to them until he mentioned it. Idiots.

“As for those impersonators… they have committed treason. Not simply by wearing our faces and perverting our names before all Decepticon-kind, but by kidnapping our medic. I have never known you to be such _cowards_ that you would willingly let mechs who have stolen our rightful property go free.”

“Never said we were cowards,” Tesarus grumbled.

“Your actions prove otherwise,” Tarn snapped. “We proceed to Worlorn. We follow the trail until we have found Nickel and her captors. And we exact justice from these doppelgangers until they’re mewling for mercy. Any who object are free to resign from their post and be turned over to Vos for discipline.”

Vos perked up at that, twittering in delight. Tesarus and Helex glared at him in disgust before turning back to Tarn.

“No objections,” Helex muttered.

“None here either,” Tesarus added.

Tarn nodded. “I thought you would see it my way.” He turned to Kaon, who had gotten to his feet but clutched his shoulder, which leaked fluid in a steady stream. “Any objections?”

Kaon shook his head, a look of absolute hatred on his faceplate.

“Good. And Kaon? If you ever question my authority again… I will tear you apart with my bare hands and divide your corpse between Vos and your Pet. Understood?”

“Understood,” Kaon snarled.

The console gave a soft beep, and a new line of text appeared on the screen. Tarn held his glower on Kaon a moment longer before going to investigate.

 _Well, well, well…_ There had just been a new transaction on Nickel’s secret account -- a payment of a handful of shanix to another mech’s account. Not much, just enough for a nice drink… but enough to track a mech by.

“Who the frag is Swerve?” demanded Tesarus, peering over Tarn’s shoulder.

-Some mech on the _Lost Light_ mission- Vos replied. -Why, what’s so important about ‘im? Thought we were chasing a medic, not some loser Autobot.-

Tarn didn’t bother to answer Vos, simply gave a sharp nod at the screen. “Change of plans. Alter our course. We pursue the _Lost Light_ at full speed!”

***

“Nickel? Nickel, my dearest, what’s wrong? You’re distracted.”

“Just… a nagging feeling…”

“Nickel?”

“My debit chip… I didn’t give it to Swerve, did I? I paid him with actual cash, right?”

“Stop worrying, dear… we’re about to have the time of our lives. We can worry about how you paid Swerve later.”

“Hey, when it’s my finances getting our team out of every scrape… aahhhhh… oh yeah, right there… that’s good… don’t stop…”

“Mmmm… I’ll stop only when we both drop from exhaustion, dear. Until then, let’s see how many overloads I can get out of you…”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took so long! Life was kicking my butt for awhile there and fic updates got delayed. I promise the next chapter won't take so long.

For being on a quest, the crew of the _Lost Light_ seemed to be in no particular hurry to accomplish said quest. They took frequent detours, stopped on various worlds for extended “shore leave” breaks, and in general seemed to get distracted from their goal by all manner of misadventures and what Tailgate liked to call “side-quests.” Compared to the relentless hunts of the Justice Division and the desperate flight of the DHD, it seemed positively leisurely, if a little lazy, to Nickel’s point of view.

Not that she was going to complain, however. After so long spent rapidly jetting from one world to another without pause, it was nice to set foot on a world with the intent to actually enjoy herself. Even if it was in the company of the certified lunatics that made up Rodimus’ crew.

“The _Lost Light_ will be refuelled and resupplied in half a megacycle,” Minimus Ambus announced, arms folded across his chest and striving to look official and imposing -- something he somehow could manage despite being near Nickel’s height. “All crew members are to report back and be aboard at that time. Anyone not present when the _Lost Light_ is ready for takeoff will be left behind.”

“Sir yes sir,” someone muttered from behind Nickel -- by the voice, she guessed it to be Riptide.

“And remember that you are representing the _Lost Light_ and her crew while you are planetside,” Minimus went on, glowering in the speaker’s direction. “I expect you all to be on your BEST behavior. If I receive word of any shenanigans from any of you, you will be disciplined upon return to the ship.”

“Ruin all our fun, why doncha?” demanded Swerve, though he wore a grin while he said it.

“And last but not least, have fun, everyone,” Rodimus cut in. “Enjoy this bit of R and R while you can, you never know when the next one will come. Now get outta here.”

The crew didn’t need to be told twice -- they scattered away from the _Lost Light_ and into the spaceport city of Kostovan, whooping and laughing and ignoring Minimus’ glare of disgust. Swerve, unsurprisingly, made a beeline for the nearest bar, while Tailgate grabbed Cyclonus’ hand and tugged him in the direction of some colorful shops. Chromedome perched Rewind on one shoulder and strolled toward a neatly manicured park, while a gaggle of younger mechs made for what appeared to be a neon-striped nightclub. Even the DHD hurried off for a chance to stretch their legs, though none of them ventured too far from their leader.

Tarn reached up to his shoulder to pat at Nickel’s back as he followed his team. “Where to, m’lady?”

“Oh, stop it,” she told him, though she smiled at the warmth in his voice. “You guys pick. I’m not picky.”

“Let’s hit one of the holo-plexes!” Vos demanded. “I haven’t seen a good holofilm in ages.”

“I was hoping we could visit a shop or two first,” Tesarus countered. “There are a few ingredients I need to make snacks for the bar. Business before pleasure and all that.”

“Tesarus, we’re here to enjoy ourselves,” Tarn pointed out gently. “We will get your foodstuffs, but for now let us relax a little. Primus knows we’ve had precious little free time over the vorns -- let’s make the most of this opportunity.”

Kaon nodded. “In that case, Captain, why don’t you choose where we go?”

Tarn’s optics flashed. “Oh no, I couldn’t…”

“We insist,” Kaon replied with a smile. “You’ve worn yourself out ensuring the rest of us are cared for and safe, and in taking care of those we serve in our missions of mercy. I believe you’ve earned the right to decide the first place we go on our little vacation.”

“Seconded!” Helex replied, clapping both sets of hands.

Vos and Tesarus nodded, and even Nickel had to agree with the masseur. Tarn was always the first member of the DHD to sacrifice his own wants and well-being for others. It was time to let his wants take precedence for once.

“Well…” Tarn turned toward the minicon perched on his shoulder. “Nickel? You know this universe better than we do. Do you know what there is on this planet that we could enjoy?”

Nickel pondered a moment. “We never visited this planet on a hunt… but if I remember right, Kostovan gets most of its trade from tourism. There’s a few amusement parks, a zoo, more bars and nightclubs than there are cyberfleas on a turbofox…” Her CPU dredged up a pertinent fact at that moment, and she smiled. “And a symphony hall.”

Tarn perked up at that, optics shining with delight. “Symphony hall?”

“Oh, bolts,” Vos groaned. “We’re not gonna have to sit through an orchestra performance, are we?”

“They also perform plays, concerts, and dance performances,” Nickel replied. “And the occasional opera.”

Tarn still wore his mask, but Nickel knew him well enough by now to know he was smiling broadly behind it. “Then the symphony hall it is. Perhaps you can point the way, my dear?”

Vos groaned again. “I thought we came here to have fun.”

“Come on, we don’t whine when you stop at every bookstore, library, and tavern on our planetside visits,” Helex reminded the archivist. “So don’t put up a fuss now when Tarn decides where we go. Besides, you might just enjoy yourself.”

“Doubt it,” Vos retorted, but he slumped and moved to follow their leader as Nickel told him which street to take. Helex and Tesarus followed close behind, while Kaon assumed the rear, a fond smile still on his faceplates.

None of them noticed a slender, dark-violet mech, face obscured by a silver mask, trailing after them, keeping to the shadows and tittering quietly to himself.

***

_-They’re here, boss. All six of ‘em. Oh, this is perfect!-_

The _Peaceful Tyranny_ had secreted itself in a deep ravine ten kilometers away from Kostovan’s capitol, and here Tarn remained at the ship’s controls while his team searched the city. The Justice Division and their ship were all too familiar to most of the civilized galaxy, and Tarn in particular was infamous enough that he didn’t dare go hunting for their doubles or their wayward medic, lest he blow their cover. The others were easily recognizable, but not so much that they couldn’t do a little covert investigation if they were just smart enough to keep their heads down.

Of course, Tarn was starting to have his doubts that his team was that smart… but no matter. They could work on improvements later, when they had eliminated the imposters and joined Nickel to their team permanently.

 _-Where are they?-_ Tarn sent back, voice smooth as velvet even as his hands trembled in anticipation.

_-Headin’ for the concert hall. Want me to tail ‘em? I can nab Nickel and be back in a flash.-_

_-Follow them, but do not rescue Nickel just yet. We want all six, not just the medic.-_

_-Gotcha, boss. This is gonna be fu- oh, scrap!-_

Hot red fury jolted through Tarn’s chassis. _-If you lost them, Vos…-_

_-Didn’t lose ‘em! But the fake Tarn just said something to the others and they’re splittin’ up. Two going one way, two another, just Tarn and Nickel heading for the concert hall now. Fraggit, fraggit, fraggit... -_

Tarn clenched his fists. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Still, it wasn’t entirely hopeless. 

_-Trail the other Tarn for now. See if you can’t subdue and capture him, Nickel, or both. I’ll send the rest of the Justice Division to help you.-_

_-What about the others?-_

Tarn pondered a moment, then made a decision. _-Let them go for now. Nickel is our priority. Tarn is second priority… and it’s quite possible we can use him to bait the others into a trap.-_

_-Gotcha. Oooh, I’m lookin’ forward to playing with Nickel again…-_

Tarn cut off the conversation before Vos could disgust him with a monologue of what he planned to do with their medic. He fired off a communique to the other three members of his team, giving them coordinates for the symphony hall and ordering them to bring him Nickel and Tarn -- alive and unharmed. That last aspect would be the most difficult for them to accomplish, but Nickel was too valuable to destroy… and he wanted the other Tarn fresh and whole before he set about to breaking him.

 _-Well, that was fast-_ Helex noted. _-Here I thought they’d be trying to hide or something. Nickel’s dumber than we realized.-_

 _-Not dumb, just complacent-_ Kaon corrected. _-She probably decided that she could lower her guard now that they had fallen in with the Lost Light.-_

_-Boss, I just spotted Megatron!-_

Tarn jerked at Tesarus’ announcement, as if a bolt of lightning had streaked down his spinal array. Megatron… his leader, his former idol, his traitor… the mech he had served for so long who had finally betrayed his own cause… he was here, on Kostovan, with the _Lost Light_. Here was the mech who had supplanted every other name on the List, the one who more richly deserved the application of their brand of justice than any other mech in the known galaxy…

_And if you leave off pursuing Nickel and the impersonator to attack him, you’ll lose your chance at Nickel. The moment your team apprehends Megatron, the Lost Light will be alerted, and she and the imposters will flee aboard it. No… you need revenge against Megatron, but you need Nickel more. There will be other opportunities._

It took every iota of willpower for Tarn to give the order, and even then his entire frame shook with anger at releasing such a prize from his grasp. _-Proceed to the symphony hall.-_

_-But Boss…-_

_-Did. I. Stutter. Tesarus. Proceed to the hall and apprehend Nickel and Tarn. We will be far better prepared to eliminate Megatron once our medic is bonded to us once and for all.-_

Tesarus grumbled something, but the communication blipped out before Tarn could demand he repeat himself. He made a mental note to discipline the mech when he returned to the Tyranny.

Tarn stood and paced the ship’s cockpit, trying to still his eager trembling. Soon… soon Nickel would be theirs for good, and he would have his impersonator within his grasp. And both would be utterly delicious to experience. A bond with such a fiery spark as Nickel’s could only strengthen them all… and exacting justice upon the false Tarn for daring to usurp his identity would be most satisfying.

_Soon, Nickel dear… soon…_

***

“So… as good as the Bard of Darkmount?” asked Nickel.

Tarn chuckled. “The Bard is a poet, my dear… though he does sing the occasional opera. And while nothing compares to him, I must say that performance was exquisite.”

The visit to the symphony hall had turned into an impromptu date night for Nickel and Tarn -- the DHD leader had sensed none of his compatriots were thrilled with the idea of a concert, and so he had suggested they find other ways to entertain themselves while he enjoyed the symphony. Vos didn’t need to be told twice and dashed off with an exasperated Kaon in tow, and Helex and Tesarus ended up joining Rung’s group for an outing at a nightclub. 

Nickel herself had been lukewarm to the idea of a concert, but had insisted on accompanying Tarn anyhow. They were going to be spending a lot of time together from here on out, and she figured she had better learn to enjoy or at least tolerate his interests. Besides, it was nice to have a private moment with him that didn’t revolve around how many overloads he could wring out of her in one session. Not that that wasn’t enjoyable… they just couldn’t spend every waking moment at it unless they really wanted to fry their circuits.

The curtain had just dropped on the second act of _Turing-Dot_ , and the audience was filing out for a chance to refuel and stretch their legs. Nickel extended one leg, then the other, wincing as the joints creaked and popped. She wasn’t used to sitting for this long. And while she had to admit that the opera was gorgeous to listen to and had an unusually compelling story, she couldn’t understand why it took so freaking LONG to tell said story.

“Are you all right?” Tarn asked.

“Just need to stretch my legs,” she groaned. “Fraggit, why do these operas have to be so long-winded?”

“Just enjoy the songs and the journey to the conclusion, dear Nickel,” Tarn urged. “People come to these things for the music, after all. And besides, I’d think you’d identify with this opera.” His optics sparkled with mirth at that.

She scowled and aimed a playful kick at his mask. “You’re saying you think I’m an ice-sparked noble-femme who makes her suitors answer riddles and kills them if they fail?”

Tarn reached up and squeezed her hand. “Not at all, dear… just that you’re a strong femme who had to build walls about herself to overcome her past, but who found love in the end.”

Her faceplates blazed with heat at that, and she tried to counter it with her usual snark. “Way to go, Tarn, you spoiled the ending.”

He laughed and lowered his hand. “Oh, there’s far more to the story that I haven’t spoiled. But before we view the conclusion, perhaps we should get up and walk a little. Remind ourselves that we’re still mobile mechanisms and all.”

Nickel nodded and slid down from his shoulder. “Wanna fetch us drinks while we’re at it? Wouldn’t mind a refuel so long as they’re giving us a break here.”

“I’d be honored to, dear.” He caught the debit chip she tossed him. “Anything in particular you want?”

“Energex if it’s not too expensive. Otherwise just plain energon’ll do.”

She nodded and made her way out of the theater, keeping close to the wall to stay out of the path of larger mechs. She could get used to this, she thought -- a life where she didn’t have to be constantly looking over her shoulder to see if some lunatic was about to kick her across the room or pin her against a wall, a life where she could call her own shots and dare to relax and enjoy herself. True, they would have to settle down sooner or later… but for now, remaining with the _Lost Light_ seemed like paradise in comparison to her former life.

_Can’t let my guard down totally, though… The DJD are still out there. And I doubt they’re going to just let bygones be bygones. Still… they’ll find themselves a new medic and move on, I’m sure. Not like there’s a shortage of medics now that the war’s over-_

A slim hand clamped onto her arm, and before she could do more than yelp in protest she found herself yanked through a doorway. She opened her mouth to curse her assailant out -- both to vent her feelings and to alert someone that she was in trouble -- but a knife sliced into her neck, cutting the wires to her vocalizer before she could utter a word.

_-Found you-_

Her spark froze in its chamber as those words -- not Neocybex, but the old Primal Vernacular -- sounded in her vocalizer. It couldn’t be…

Vos gave a quiet snicker as he pressed the knife to her neck strut. _-Thought you could escape us, huh? Aw, sweetspark… when are you gonna learn that your life belongs to us? Always has… always will?-_

Despite the blade at her fuel lines, Nickel squirmed against the gunformer’s grip as he dragged her further into the shadows. The doorway must have been a tunnel -- a way for performers to sneak onto the stage without having to cut through the audience to do so. And, unfortunately, a perfect hiding place for a Decepticon Justice Division agent to do his dirty work without fear of being caught.

 _-Tarn’s missed you-_ Vos went on. _-Can’t understand why -- medics are a shanix a dozen. But evidently he thinks you bonding to the team’ll strengthen us. And you’ve made things VERY difficult for all of us by haring off with our imposters before we could commence with the bonding.-_

Nickel writhed as she felt the cold wall of the tunnel against her back plates. Vos shoved the blade harder against her neck struts, and she shuddered and went limp. Despite her terror at what Vos intended to do, she feared death even more… feared never seeing her Tarn or the DHD again…

_-Tarn says he wants you back unharmed. But… what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? It’s been WAY too long since we had fun together, sweetspark…-_

Nickel offlined her optics and gritted her dental plates, forcing herself not to flinch or lash out as Vos opened his panel, then hers. Long habit mad her still and brace herself, hoping he would get it over with quickly, hoping that an overload was all he sought and he wouldn’t see fit to indulge in other torments before taking her back…

_No… no, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to let him have his way. You don’t belong to him… he has no right to do this to you, even if he did save your life. Strika and Tarn both said it… you have to let yourself believe it…_

It was one thing to think those words, however, and another to break vorns of habit and conditioning. Some part of her CPU still sneered that her life belonged to the DJD, that they had been generous in saving her and giving her a place among them and that she had no right to deny them anything in return. And yet… and yet…

 _-Yeesh, someone’s used your valve recently.-_ Vos prodded her roughly with a digit. _-Got yourself a conjux among our impersonators, do you? No matter… they’ll be dead soon enough.-_

Those words sent a burst of white-hot anger through her chassis, thawing the icy fear in her spark. Tarn… Vos… Kaon… Helex… Tesarus… HER Division, HER team, the DHD she had come to love with her own brand of fierceness… This false Vos wouldn’t lay a hand on them! Not if she had anything to say about it!

Vos pressed against her, pinning her between the wall and his chassis. She clenched her jaw, raised her hand… and brought it down, the scalpel she’d yanked from her shoulder compartment carving deep into sensitive alloys. Energon and other fluids fountained from the wound, and Vos recoiled with a piercing shriek that made her audials ring, hands dropping to grip his crotch as vital fluids streaked down his legs and puddled on the floor.

Nickel didn’t stop to survey her handiwork -- she took off running the minute her wheels touched the floor, darting from the tunnel and racing across the mostly-empty theater. The few mechs who lingered stared after her in shock, and a couple moved toward the tunnel to investigate the unholy shrieking. With any luck, they would draw the correct conclusion from the nature of Vos’ wounds and alert the authorities… but she wasn’t going to count on luck at the moment.

She didn’t fear Vos’ pursuit -- even the most stalwart mechs needed a few minutes to recover from damage done to THAT area. No, she feared the safety of her team even more…

Her worst fears were realized as she emerged from the theater… and saw the other three members of the Justice Division escorting her Tarn out the door. The red-and-gold Tarn slumped between the two larger mechs, head lolling to the side, optics dim as he was bodily hauled out of the theater. Kaon walked alongside Helex, one hand on the larger mech’s chassis to guide him, calling out for a clear path as they went.

“Our esteemed leader has managed to overcharge himself,” Kaon said by way of explanation. “We’ll remove him from the premises until he’s sobered up.”

“I should say you will!” a theater worker shouted after them. “Get him out of here! We don’t want YOUR kind fouling up our establishment!”

“Who let DJD in here in the first place?” someone in the crowd grumbled. “I knew Kostovan has an open-door policy to just about anyone, but this is ridiculous.”

“I thought Tarn was purple,” someone else chimed in. “As if a change in paint would hide who he is…”

Nickel opened her mouth to scream for Tarn, but only a rasp of static emerged from her broken vocalizer. She could only watch in horror as they dragged the offline leader of the DHD out of the theater and toward his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in trivia -- the opera Nickel and Tarn watch in this chapter is based on a real human opera, _Turandot._ I didn't realize until three-quarters of the way through this chapter that it was oddly fitting -- _Turandot_ was left tragically unfinished when its composer died (another composer finished it, but the ending is hotly disputed to this day), and it looks as if Nickel and Tarn won't get a chance to finish the opera themselves...


	17. Chapter 17

Nickel never found out what Drift had done to convince the Kostovan authorities to turn the DJD’s Vos over to the _Lost Light_. And to be quite honest, she had no desire to find out. Knowing that at least some of the crew aboard this vessel cared enough about the DHD to do whatever it took to bring one of their number back was quite enough.

“You sure did a number on him, Nickel,” Ratchet grumbled as he walked out of the medbay, wiping his hands on a rag. “He’s going to need some delicate surgery before he’s fit for interfacing again. And quite frankly, given the horror stories I’ve heard about him, I’m in no mood to recommend him for the procedure.”

Nickel didn’t reply, though inwardly she seethed. If she had been CMO of this ship, Vos could have bled out for all she cared, or at the very least suffered without any efforts to patch his damages. Her Tarn would have been dismayed at her vindictive streak, but at the moment she didn’t care. She owed Vos for all the pain and violation he’d dealt her for so long, and she was sorely tempted to take out her anger and fear at Tarn’s abduction on him. Primus knew he deserved every bit of it.

Her gaze moved to the other mechs waiting outside the repair bay -- Hot Rod, Drift, Megatron, Ultra Magnus (back in his armor, doubtless to better intimidate the prisoner), and Kaon, who stood in as head of the DHD at the moment. None of them looked particularly happy at this turn of events -- though whether it was because someone under the _Lost Light’s_ watch had been abducted or circumstances had forced them to host one of the Justice Division aboard their ship, she wasn’t sure.

“What’s his condition?” asked Ultra Magnus.

“Stable and online,” Ratchet replied. “Babbling something in the old Primal Vernacular that I don’t know the precise meaning of, though I do know profanity when I hear it regardless of the language. I doubt he’s happy that I’ve denied him painkillers for the time being.”

“When will he be fit to question?” asked Megatron. “He must know something about where the DJD are taking Captain Tarn.”

“Who cares if he’s fit to question?” demanded Nickel. “I’ve got half a CPU to go in there and wring the answer out of him with my own hands!”

“Calm down, Nickel,” Drift urged.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, you fraggin’ hippie!” she snapped. “They’ve got Tarn, and they’re going to do the kind of unspeakable things to him that would give Megatron nightmares! No offense, sir.”

“None taken,” Megatron noted dryly. 

“So don’t tell me to fraggin’ calm down!” Nickel went on. “The longer we drag our feet, the more likely Tarn’ll be either a babbling mindless wreck or a pile of scrap by the time we find him!”

Hot Rod whistled softly. “She’s a spitfire. I like that.”

Nickel glared at him.

“Drift has a point,” Megatron noted. “You’ll get nothing out of Vos if you simply charge in shouting questions at him. The Justice Division are cunning, and Tarn -- this universe’s Tarn -- has doubtless drilled his followers in any number of techniques for subverting interrogation techniques.”

Nickel ground her denta but didn’t reply. She’d never been coached in any of those techniques… but then, Tarn had probably figured she would never leave the Peaceful Tyranny and, thus, never have cause to put them to use.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can go in and question him immediately,” Ratchet replied. “Though I hope at least one of you can understand him.”

“I can,” Nickel assured him. “I’d like backup when I confront him, though.” Wounding him back at the symphony hall made her feel some measure of vindication, but all the same she would rather not face him alone. Especially since he’d likely be nursing a grudge against her now.

“I’ll go with you,” Kaon assured her. “I know the Vernacular. And perhaps he’ll be willing to talk to someone wearing a familiar face.”

“I as well,” Megatron put in.

“There should be at least one Autobot in there as well,” Ultra Magnus ordered. “This IS an Autobot vessel. If Vos tells us anything that could help us apprehend the Decepticon Justice Division once and for all, the Autobots should be informed.”

Nickel rolled her optics. Trust him to stick rigidly to procedure in the middle of a crisis.

“I’ll go,” Drift offered. “I can offer protection in case the prisoner gets violent. And maybe he’ll be more willing to talk with a calmer mind in there to balance things out.”

Ultra Magnus gave Drift a look that implied he’d rather have anyone else, even a rogue sparkeater, in the room with the prisoner. “Perhaps… but in that case, I go with you.”

“I might as well go too, if it’s a party,” Hot Rod quipped. “Don’t want to miss the fun.”

“Fun?” repeated Nickel, glowering.

“If I’d wanted to turn my medbay into a fraggin’ three-ring circus, I’d have hired the clowns myself,” Ratchet grumbled, but no one paid him any mind as they filed into the room.

Vos huddled on his berth like a cornered animal, wrists and ankles cuffed, muttering to himself and taking in his surroundings with quick, jerky movements. Nickel noted that he hunched over himself, legs pressed together in an effort to protect his most delicate bits… and that Ratchet hadn’t bothered to clean up the oil and other fluids that stained his armor. Both those observations gave her a burst of satisfaction. 

_That’s for all the pain you’ve dealt me over the cycles,_ she thought.

“Decepticon Vos,” Ultra Magnus stated, voice cool and businesslike. 

Vos glanced up, optics flashing. His gaze flickered from mech to mech, pausing briefly on Megatron and for an uncomfortably longer moment on Kaon before finally coming to rest on Nickel. Hatred blazed in his optics, but his vocalizer stuttered in a horrible laugh.

_-If I’d have known you liked to play rough earlier, Nickel dear, I would have taught you a few tricks.-_

“Mute it,” she barked. “Where’s Tarn?”

“Didn’t I say to not come in here shouting questions right away?” Megatron muttered.

Vos stuttered another laugh. _-Tarn is on the_ Peaceful Tyranny, dear, awaiting your return. Kind of stupid if you ask me -- medics are easy to replace -- but evidently he’s got his spark set on you. Feel flattered, sweetspark. He likes you too much to kill you right away.-

 _He just has a fate worse than death in mind for me,_ she thought darkly. But she didn’t say it. “You know full well which Tarn I mean, Vos. The red and gold Tarn. What have you psychos done with him?”

Vos shrugged. _-How should I know? The others nabbed him. They’re probably well on their way back to… never mind. They’re long gone, so you might as well write him off as dead.-_

A hoarse cry of rage and horror forced its way out of her vocalizer, and her hand snapped back to grab a tool to impale the sick freak through the optic. But a massive black-plated hand snatched her wrist before she could draw it.

“Don’t,” whispered Megatron, his voice so soft her audials barely picked it up. “That’s what he wants. If he can’t escape, he’ll goad one of us into killing him before he can be made to talk.”

She shuddered, forcing herself to release the scalpel. Megatron waited until her arm had relaxed utterly before letting go, and even then he watched her carefully until her arm hung back at her side.

“Hey pal, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Hot Rod explained. “Talk to us, and we can see about getting you a lighter sentence once we get back to Cybertron.”

Nickel just stared at the young red mech. Lighter sentence? For this monster? 

_-Tell the pretty boy I refuse his offer-_ Vos retorted. _-But I’d be perfectly willing to tell you where the Tyranny’s going next, Nickel dear… if…-_

She frowned. “If what?” she demanded, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

_-If I can be sure you’re going back. Tell these Autobots and the traitor to let me go, and let me take you with them. We’ll all be out of their wiring soon enough… and I can take you back to Tarn, where you belong.-_

“And just why would I want to do that?” she snapped.

 _-Because it’s your place-_ Vos said softly, his optics glittering with sadistic glee. _-We saved you, little medic. We picked you up from a ruined world when we could have easily left you to die. You owe us your life… and you have no right to refuse us access to your services, your body, or your spark. You belong to us.-_

Kaon shuddered, and he slipped away from behind Nickel. It figured, she thought, that one of the peaceful mechs of the DHD couldn’t bear to stomach what was coming out of Vos’ vocalizer. She had hoped that he would show a little more courage during this crisis… but perhaps she’d expected too much out of a pacifist at the moment.

 _-It’s not too late-_ Vos went on. _-You can come back to us. Tarn’ll be forgiving. And I’ve missed our playtimes…-_

Nickel’s hands twitched, eager to grab a scalpel or pick and do some serious damage. But instead she opened her vocalizer and let him have it.

“I don’t belong to you,” she snapped. “I’m my own mechanism, and you don’t own me! No one does -- not the DJD, not the DHD, not the _Lost Light,_ nobody! I’ve let you beasts claim ownership of me for far too long… but those days are over. I’m never going back.”

Drift gave a beaming smile. “You tell him, Nickel.”

“What the frag is she talking about?” muttered Ultra Magnus.

Vos shook his head. _-Then Tarn’s imposter dies a horrific death, my dear. And you earn yourself a place on the List. Such a shame -- you were a half-decent medic. Not to mention a nice piece of-_

The rest of his sentence terminated in a wild shriek as a violet-plated hand rested on his shoulder, the thumb digging into the joint to crush the sensory node embedded within. Kaon’s face was an expressionless mask, but his optics blazed with fury.

“You will not address her in such a fashion, Vos,” he stated, voice cold with anger. “And you will answer her questions. Understand?”

“Kaon!” Ultra Magnus snapped. “Hands off the prisoner! The _Lost Light_ does NOT engage in enhanced interrogation methods!” 

Kaon gave the commander a humorless smile. “The Decepticon Homemaking Division has not yet declared its intentions to join the crew of the _Lost Light_. We do not currently fall under its jurisdiction. Therefore, we may question the prisoner as we see fit.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics flashed, but his confusion lasted only a moment. “You are still aboard this ship as guests, and will abide by our rules so long as you’re here. Hands. Off.”

Kaon’s hand moved to the back of Vos’ neck, and the wiry mech emitted an audial-wracking howl of pain. “You’ve stated the rules. And at this moment, I choose not to abide by them. Punish me as you see fit after we’ve questioned the prisoner. I’ll have no regrets.”

Nickel’s jaw dropped. “Kaon…”

“I’ve learned much about the body of a mechanism,” Kaon explained, pressing against a wire in Vos’ neck and making him yelp in agony. “It’s amazing what sort of pains you can relieve with a little pressure in the right spot… and what pains you can inflict with pressure in other spots. Using our abilities to cause pain has always been against everything the DHD has stood for… but right now, with our Captain in danger, I will use whatever tools are at my disposal. Even if they are less than kind.”

She stared at the masseur in amazement. So he had some grit to him after all… and the steel bearings it would take to rescue Tarn from the DJD. She only hoped that the others would show the same courage when the time came.

“Hot Rod, Drift, arrest this mech,” Magnus ordered.

Hot Rod tilted his head as if considering the order. “No… I don’t think we will. I’m with Kaon on this.”

“How dare you-” began Magnus.

“I normally don’t approve of violence as a means to deal with a situation,” Drift added, “but in this case… I’m willing to make an exception.”

Magnus growled and stepped forward to grab Kaon himself… only for two sets of hands to hold him back. His head swiveled back and forth between Ratchet and Megatron, his face a mask of anger.

“This is mutiny,” he snarled.

“Stuff it,” Ratchet ordered. “Let ‘em get the information we need out of him, all right? It’s the only way we’re going to be able to rescue Tarn.”

“Vos isn’t worth your mercy,” Megatron added.

Nickel decided the two larger mechs had Magnus well in hand, and turned back to Vos. “I’m only going to ask this once, you sick pile of scraplet-infested slag. Where is the Peaceful Tyranny going?”

Vos shook with rage and agony as he glared at Nickel… then hissed as Kaon dug his thumb into a gap in the armor covering his rib struts. _-Sorro! The Sorro System! Fourth planet!-_

Kaon nodded. “Good… where precisely on said planet? We don’t have time to search it in its entirety.”

_-You think I’m gonna just blab it all- OOOWWWW! All right, all right, there’s a cave system! One with a cavern big enough to dock the Tyranny! Stop it, please, stop it!-_

“Coordinates,” Kaon demanded, pushing his thumb into the sensory node even harder.

Vos shrieked and babbled out a set of coordinates. _-For the love of Primus, pleeeeease…-_

Kaon moved his hand to the back of Vos’ neck and squeezed, and his last plea for mercy trailed off as he slumped back to the berth. The masseur stepped away from the offline mech and walked out of the medbay without another word.

“That will not happen again aboard this ship,” Magnus snapped. “Prisoners, even ones as despicable as Vos of the DJD, deserve some measure of mercy.”

“Don’t worry,” Nickel promised. “It won’t.” She looked at Vos, trying and failing to dredge up some measure of sympathy for him. “What’s going to be done with him?”

“He’ll go back to Cybertron with us,” Hot Rod replied. “And he’ll probably face trial alongside Megatron and be punished accordingly.” A smile crossed his faceplate, one touched with a measure of vindictive glee. “That is, if word that he’s on this ship doesn’t leak out and someone decides to take matters into their own hands.”

“Word of this will not spread beyond the repair bay,” Magnus ordered. “That is final!”

“Yes sir,” Hot Rod replied, but the gleam in his optics told Nickel that the entire crew would know they harbored Vos within a cycle. If so, then they could have at him for all she cared. No punishment they could dream up could be too severe in her CPU.

“You guys do whatever the frag you want with him,” Nickel declared. “I’m out of here.”

“We haven’t decided what to do with this information yet,” Magnus protested.

“I’ve decided,” she retorted. “I’m taking the DHD and we’re going to Sorro to rescue Tarn.”

“That’s suicide!” Ratchet protested. “They’re all pacifists -- they’ll be shredded into scrap within a dozen astroseconds! Probably literally!”

“We have to try,” Nickel retorted. “Besides, Kaon just proved that he’s willing to forego the pacifism if it means helping a teammate. These mechs aren’t nearly as weak as you want to believe they are… and I know that if they’re dedicated to rescuing Tarn, they’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

Magnus opened his mouth to protest, but Megatron squeezed his arm in a warning gesture. The silver warlord leveled his crimson gaze on Nickel, weighing his words before he spoke.

“You have a strong spark packed in that little chassis,” he noted. “Captain Tarn is fortunate to have you as a friend… and more. But be careful. The Justice Division are not to be underestimated, and the odds are stacked highly against you.”

“Don’t I know it,” she replied. “Probably better than any Cybertronian alive. But I’ll be careful.”

He nodded, and a rare smile crossed his faceplate. “Rip his vocalizer out for me. You know whose.”

“Now just a-” began Magnus, but Nickel had already darted out of the room.

Kaon waited in the hallway, and Nickel decided she didn’t like the troubled expression on his faceplate. “Hey.”

The thin mech turned to face her. “Ah… there you are. I couldn’t help but overhear -- you’ve volunteered us for a rescue mission?”

“It’s for your Captain,” she replied. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Kaon replied. “The others won’t either, even if they might need a little convincing of that fact.” He looked down at his hands, a shadow passing through his optics. 

“Kaon? What’s wrong?”

“I… have never deliberately hurt another mechanism before. It came so easily… and that horrifies me. Because what’s to stop me from becoming as much of a monster as my other self?”

“That won’t happen,” Nickel assured him. “Because you know better. And because you did what you did to Vos not out of some sick enjoyment, but to help your Captain. That alone makes you a far better being than the other Kaon.”

“I only hope you’re right…”

“I know I’m right. Now let’s get to the _Ember’s Hope_. I need you to send a message for me.”

“A message?” His brow plates furrowed. “To who?”

Nickel smirked. “To the _Obliterator_.”

***

The moment Tarn onlined his optics, he knew something was dreadfully wrong. A mech didn’t just fall into stasis while standing in line at a concession stand, after all. And no part of an opera entailed strapping the spectators down into their chairs… at least, no opera he’d ever attended. Perhaps they did things differently in this universe, though he wasn’t about to bet on it.

The chamber he found himself in was cramped and dank, and the presence of at least two other bodies just made it all the more claustrophobic. He couldn’t seem to turn his head -- they’d restrained his head in place as well as cuffed his hands and feet to his chair -- but he could sense the presence of a hulking mech on either side of him. Their energy fields and the heat their internals generated felt all too close for comfort, and even out of optic-sight they seemed to radiate malice and hatred like a poisonous aura.

 _I’ve been kidnapped._ That was the first clear thought to cross his CPU. Then, the second -- _Nickel… is she all right? Or do they have her too?_

He tried to wrench his head out of the restraints… but a jolt of electricity snapped through his chassis, and he keened in pain.

“He’s online,” the mech on his left rumbled… and he felt his ember plummet in his chest. It was the voice of Helex, as familiar to him as his own. Yet it was not the Helex he knew -- it was rough and laden with a sinister anticipation, a twisted mirror of his teammate’s.

“Well, comm Tarn an’ tell him, stupid,” the mech on his right barked -- Tesarus, or more accurately the warped duplicate of him.

“You comm ‘im!” Helex snapped.

“You idiots.” That voice came from the very chair he sat in, and with growing dread he realized it was this universe’s Kaon. “I’ll comm him. It falls on me to do everything now, doesn’t it?”

It seemed an eternity later that the door to the room opened to admit the leader of the Justice Division… and Tarn wanted to be sick. The figure that loomed before him was one that had haunted his nightmares ever since they had learned the truth about their alternate selves, the monster that had lurked in his subconscious and taunted his every thought and fear. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing all your flaws, all your secret horrors, reflected back at you… and worse, wearing your own face.

“Welcome aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ,” the other Tarn told him, voice smooth as chrome. “I trust my comrades have made your stay so far comfortable?”

Tarn tried valiantly to control the spasm of fear that shuddered up his spinal array, and very nearly succeeded. “Your accommodations are somewhat lacking. I can offer you a few suggestions on how to make them more welcoming for future guests.”

The other Tarn gave a chuckle that sent further shivers up his spinal strut. “Ah, a wit. This will be more entertaining than I thought.” His gaze moved to the guards. “Helex, Tesarus, leave us.”

Cables and pistons creaked as both mechs tensed up at the order. “Thought we were gonna help dismantle this imposter,” Tesarus growled.

“You will have plenty of opportunity to dismantle your own imposters. Trust me. Now… leave us.”

“How come Kaon gets to stay and help?” demanded Helex. “I swear you’re playin’ favorites.”

“Kaon is necessary. You two are not. Now… out.”

The two mechs exchanged angry looks, but stormed out without another word. The other Tarn waited until the door had shut behind them before approaching the strapped-down mech, crouching to better inspect him. Tarn struggled to keep from flinching away, but he couldn’t quite suppress the trembling that wracked his frame. How did one keep calm when they were confronted by an evil that wore their own face?

“Fascinating,” the other Tarn murmured, cocking his head as he examined his prize. “Never have I seen an imposter go to such lengths. Which makes it all the more puzzling that you would choose to wear other colors. Not that colors matter in the long run, I suppose.”

Tarn summoned every scrap of courage he could muster and spoke the question that lurked foremost in his CPU. “Where is Nickel?”

The other Tarn’s optics flickered in surprise. “And here I was about to ask you that. Ah… you assume we snatched her up as well. Vos insisted he had THAT well in hand, but bungled the job and got himself captured in the process. Well… we have replaced Vos once. We can easily do it again.”

Some part of him relaxed at that. Nickel had escaped their clutches, at least… and hopefully would have the good sense to stay far away. If the DJD got their hands on her, he would never forgive himself.

“So tell me, my impersonator,” the other Tarn went on, straightening to his full height. “Why do you and your comrades choose to wear our faces and shapes? What possesses you to take our names and masquerade as us? You do realize that cannot be forgiven… that it is an offense against the Decepticon laws to impersonate an officer?”

“We had no knowledge of your laws,” Tarn replied. “We are not of this universe -- we come from another. We are your alternate selves from another part of the multiverse.”

The other Tarn shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Kaon? Ten seconds.”

Tarn didn’t have a chance to ask what he meant by that -- lightning arced through his chassis. His limbs jerked uncontrollably, only the cuffs keeping him from flailing wildly, and his jaw clenched so tightly he swore he could feel his denta crack. Never before had ten seconds seemed to last so long… and he nearly wept in relief when Kaon cut off the flow of energy, despite the pain still screaming through his neural net.

“I don’t believe you,” the other Tarn repeated. “The Decepticon Justice Division is made up of the most highly trained and ruthless mechanisms in existence. There is no way our duplicates from another universe would be so inept and weak.”

Tarn’s vocalizer fizzled, and it took him several tries to get his answer out. “It… is a vast… multiverse. Anything… is possible.”

The other Tarn considered that, then nodded. “You have a point. Still…” He pondered a little longer. “It doesn’t matter anyhow. Impersonator or alternate version of myself… either way, the end result is the same. In this universe, you are an anomaly. Surplus. It is our duty to clear the dross from the Decepticon forces, and you and your fellow duplicates must be eliminated to keep you from sullying the cause.”

Tarn tried to shake his head, but Kaon held it in place. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh… we do.” An oil-thirsty gleam flickered in those crimson optics. “It is our duty. Our sacred mission.”

The words were out of his vocalizer before Tarn could snatch them back. “Sacred duty? You are deluded. You and your team are monsters of the worst kind.”

The other Tarn’s optics flared. “You dare…”

“You claim to be bettering the Decepticon cause,” Tarn went on, “but all you care about is sowing cruelty and oil wherever you go. It isn’t about the cause for you -- it’s about indulging in your sadistic, psychopathic lust for carnage and death. The ‘cause’ is just a way to justify it -- to yourself if to no one else. You and your team could have used your abilities and talents for so much good, but instead you squander them by wallowing in oil and filth!”

The other Tarn gestured sharply to the electric chair. “Thirty seconds.”

Tarn roared in agony as a fresh wave of energy slammed into him. Pain dazzled his vision, whited out his CPU… it enveloped his entire world and threatened to blot out his very sanity…

When his senses returned, the other Tarn loomed direcover him, his mask so close that Tarn could have lifted his head slightly and kissed him had he had the wild urge. The sheer hatred that gleamed in his optics should have shut him up… but it was as if the shocks he’d received had loosened his vocalizer.

“You are a monster,” he hissed. “And Nickel deserves far better than you.”

The other Tarn reared up and slammed a fist into his mask, smashing it against his lip plates. “Nickel belongs to us!”

Tarn spit a mouthful of energon out, feeling it hit the inside of his mask, before replying. “If you think of her as property, then you don’t deserve her. And I swear to you that I would rather die than see her fall under your spell again.”

Another blow sent a lightning bolt of pain through his cranial unit. “That can easily be arranged. Kaon, release his ankle cuffs.”

The shackles released. Tarn barely had time to register that before the other Tarn grabbed his legs and forced them apart.

“I had considered sparing you this,” he snarled, his voice now seething with a twisted lust as well as fury. “But you’ve pushed me too far. Struggle if you wish… resistance always adds a bit of spice to an interface session for me.”

Tarn screamed.


End file.
